


Jaskier Needs No Man

by AceOfTheDead



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: After having a hiatus from august 2020 to jan 2021 lmao, Hey bitches, I might update this soon, M/M, any feedback is feedback, basically they will fall in love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-27
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:47:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 28,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23869984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AceOfTheDead/pseuds/AceOfTheDead
Summary: A fix-it fic in which Jaskier, heartbroken from the mountaintop where Geralt pushes him so far away that Jaskier decides to make him most regretful before everything falls exactly into place. Experience a new flavor of The Witcher with a poetic tang! Feedback and suggestions are always welcome! This fic is updated sporadically whenever I feel like it though, be warned!
Relationships: Eskel/Jaskier | Dandelion, Eskel/Lambert (The Witcher), Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion & Lambert
Comments: 39
Kudos: 210





	1. The Beginning Of The End Of Geralt As He Is Known

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't really done much writing and have found that I am not the best at putting the words how I want them. Be kind please. This is also geared towards the Netflix series happenstance because I am new to the fandom and have not ventured into the other medias for myself. Thank you for anyone who even bothers to find this in the deck, feedback is not necessary, but I would enjoy it.

It’s a humbling thing to fall in love. It takes away your perception that was, hopefully, once so acute. The world simply is not about you so much as the one you love, all of a sudden. This is why love is always the undoing of those that think they have seen everything. It makes the world forever different, and thoughts do not pass without the weigh-ins of your beloved. There exists only a few things at par with the power of love. There exists hate, and fate...but most potently, heartbreak.

To feel heartbreak, one must first feel the strong hands of love. The hands of love work terribly funny with the guidance of fate. Whole kingdoms have been left in the wake of such instances. Heartbreak is all-consuming in the ways that love itself is, only heartbreak does everything opposite love does. It makes every part of you feel heavy where love had made you feel like you might float away, the heart beating in your chest feels like any pump could be its last where it had run so fast under the influence of love. Where love made every day a refreshing new morning full of wonder, heartbreak made every day one-too-many.

Heartbreak is curable...if you would like to move on and get better. Poor off be the fellow that does not. Jaskier does not wish to be better. Deep in his mind, this is all his fault. It was him that forced Geralt away every time in his mind. He was loud, Geralt was quiet. He was lively and could talk with anyone, but Geralt would never humor a conversation with him. Was he really so foul? Geralt could weather any amount of pain, solve any problem, and he still despised Jaskier so deeply, that he’d exiled Jaskier...on top of a mountain.

When it had happened, and Geralt spoke those wretched words into existence, he was heartbroken on the spot. In his sadness, he took his leave almost immediately. He thought Geralt might catch up to him, speak of apologies and forgiveness. Hell, he’d hoped for a second Geralt would run after him and proclaim both apologies and return his sentiments of love. But Geralt did not come to his rescue this time. He took his leave alone.

Once he was away long enough, camped far enough away from the mountain, he shed the last of his tears for the evening and made a plan. He would move on to spite Geralt, to spread his blessings to other souls unfortunate to cross paths with him and leave his songs in every tavern to let Geralt know of his mistake. Tonight, he would shed his tears. Tomorrow, he would do everything not to. There existed a fire within Jaskier that he kept dull beneath the surface using song and happy flirtations. Yes, Jaskier had the spirit of a dragon and that which he held dear had just been stolen from under him. He would tolerate no such thing, but for now, he would retreat and lick his wounds, and execute his plan the second it became possible.


	2. Tonight Is For The Tears

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The night Jaskier has after the mountaintop.

Tonight is the only night Jaskier plans to allow himself to wallow and take pity upon himself. He would beat himself up tonight and then he would move forward. He chose to stay outside, lest the good people of an inn hear all he has to say to himself. Jaskier is delicate to matters of the heart more than anything else, and he was going to wail on himself tonight for it. 

The second his camp was made, he felt the feelings swirling inside him become a thick smoke that hung heavy in his lungs and watered his eyes. He yelled the terrible things inside his head into the night sky and hit a branch over a tree’s trunk until it splintered under the force. He was angry and hurt and he wanted the whole world, but especially one person in particular to hear his anguish. He stuck by and helped Geralt for years. Cleaned his wounds, brushed his hair, got him food and ran market trips. And Geralt acts like Jaskier is a burden. Anger is loud and it is consuming. It was no surprise the shattering would reach the far corners of his heart. He didn’t want to hide behind pleasantries anymore, no, he wanted to burn the whole world to ashes, but would happily settle for turning the world of the great ‘White Wolf’ totally and utterly inside out. To be both his making and his undoing would be the most severe turn of fate. 

There lies a problem with the properties of anger though, that all-consuming fire eventually snuffs out to simmering coals of bitterness and sadness. Jaskier had now had his anger and contempt voiced, carried through every tree nearby. His flame was turning into coals, and his shouts into tears. He took a seat on his bedroll, removed from Roach’s saddlebags when he fled the mountaintop. Jaskier had never before really understood how lonely the night sky could be, how it could stare back at you and make you feel exposed for all your worth in the dirt. As he stared back at those stars that used to seem brighter, he let his tears of sadness fall in replacement of the ones that had fallen from anger mere moments ago. 

It wasn’t fair he bellowed, that he could give a man everything and receive only heartbreak in the end. That he could spend years falling in love with an oaf who regarded him like a splinter in his foot. He came to the revelation that Geralt kept him around for ease and out of a sense of duty, and that he had stupidly fallen in love with a rude soul that couldn’t even admit to friendship. He ponders why he had stayed, especially for so long. He could have saved every coin he’d ever earned and retired. He could have taken keep at a royal court and brought scandal to the nobility for fun. He could have taken a lover that would love him back in full and built a home with them. It felt as if he had wagered his future on an impossible gamble with wasted hope. The witcher could never love him back. He was no Yennefer, no mage, nothing that could match the lifetime of a witcher, let alone thaw a heart so frozen it had to be made of ice. 

He had been blinded in the hope that maybe his affections could wear down the wolf before him, the one he met in a tavern, overlooked and with an unmatched heat in his eyes. He thought that being gifted the last coin of a witcher far more handsome than anyone he’d ever meant could allow him to hope for more. Gods, he felt so wrong about that now. It felt he had faced every fear he secretly contained tonight except death. He would make this wolf feel like a rabbit for making him feel this way.


	3. The Trees Always Listen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier plays his new song for the first time in the woods.

Jaskier awoke at his camp and just stayed laying down for a while. Taverns were most busy come late afternoon, there was nowhere he had to be for right now. He didn't feel much like getting up anyhow. The dawn left a pretty blue in the sky that washed over Jaskier like an ocean tide, gentle now, but with promise of much power later. It was colder than it had been the night before. The darkness of night having stolen away the heat from the soil. He supposed he should get up, to make preparations for his...upcoming adventures. 

The dewy grass and dirt had rubbed nature's fingerprints all over his stuff. He took a spare rag, usually used to wash cuts and monster guts, and started wiping down his stuff. Dirt had a way of clinging around, even under pressure. It was frustrating and Jaskier decided that perhaps playing his upcoming new hit would be a good use of time.

He strummed at his lute to make sure everything was tuned correctly and started a mellow melody that mirrored the lurch in his chest.   
"There once was a humble rabbit,  
That hopped freely around,  
Evading hunters and dogs alike,  
But the humble rabbit, so caught up with what he found,  
Forgot to check for wolves among his den,"

the melody turned into something dangerous

"There once was a wolf, so big and so strong,  
So sure he wasn't doing wrong,  
Feeding on the world around him,  
But not always giving back what he owed,  
He spied a mere rabbit, right inside it's den,  
One that peeked his interest,  
So much better than any hen-

The rabbit did not run away,  
But yet the wolf gave chase-  
Thinking he'd found the perfect prey,  
His teeth sunk in,  
And the rabbit smiled anyway,  
This fool had thought he'd caught the rabbit,  
But the rabbit had caught him,  
And there was no way he could get away,  
From that stark smile he'd seen on that day…

Under the rabbit's spell,  
The wolf could never get away…"

The song flowed nice from his lips. It felt to Jaskier, like the whole forest had paid attention to his song. Like every tree felt his heartbreak and anguish, his anger. It felt good- to be heard. Even if only by himself.

He didn't know it, but he hadn't been completely alone. Out of human earshot, the forest held so much magical life. Fae lived here, even if they were rarer these days. They saw a heartbreak so sad they were drawn in, and an anger so strong they could not come any closer than to listen. Jaskier had picked up so much love from the fae, and they agreed that none of them would stop him from his journey out of the woods. The fae were not the only listeners in the audience though. There had been a witcher who had made camp elsewhere in the forest, and had gone in search of a creature that put him in earshot of Jaskier and the tale told with careful melody. 

The witcher was too enthralled by the beautiful voice and decided to go closer. He should check it out, he was hunting and surely whatever was waiting for him in the woods heard it too. He told himself, he just wanted to make sure this person was safe from the dangers of the woodlands. The closer he got, the more his medallion warned him of magic, something dangerous. But he could see, could smell, that this bard, in wrinkled and dirty clothes was as human as they come. He looked to the trees around and saw the fae resting out of sight with their eyes and ears giving rapt attention to the bard, just as he was. He decided to slip away, not wanting to ruffle any fae the wrong way. He stayed close enough to listen. He knew then that someone had broken this poor bard's heart. He wanted to know more, but...someone like him, he thought, could never entertain someone like that...breathtaking bard.

A sour note stuck in his heart at the thought. He went back to the griffin's nest he'd hunted down early in the morning to finish the job he had been distracted from, despite all his experience and training. If he got another scar thinking about that haunting tune, well, it was a precaution of the job.


	4. The Tavern And The Cards

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier and Eskel meet for the first time. It's very...soft

Jaskier felt good going into the tavern. The metaphorical stage was all he really had now, so he would continue thanking it for all it had given him. Without it he would have no coin, no muse, and no will to keep moving forward. He said a thanks to whatever might be listening in the night sky before he headed into the doors of the busy tavern.

The barkeep didn't exactly find need for a bard, but agreed that he could play as long as he played good music. He had to wow the crowd or he couldn't play. He really hoped the only thing that sold more than adventure and Geralt's good looks would be his own broken heart. How cruel it would be if he got to only sing praise of the fabled 'white wolf' and not of his own strife. Jaskier sat in front of the fire and made sure his lute was ready. He told the room, for the few interested eyes, that he would start with regular songs, his famous works, and then be moving on to his newest one. Jaskier had a plan, he would get their attention with the classics, and then he would swoop in and finish with his heartbreak. 

He played Toss A Coin, and then Her Sweet Kiss, and what have you. People were very pleased to be his audience, to hear the classics from the original. Jaskier spoke to the whole room now, "My beloved audience, since you have been such dear hearts and listened well. I've decided you should be the first to hear my newest song!" They all cheered and clapped. People are always happy for new songs, sometimes they don't even care if it's any good. He then began, just as he had in the forest. His tale of woe and mourning a loss worse than death.

They all were enamored. The audience clung to every word and Jaskier lived for it. Jaskier needed his feelings to be heard more than anything right now. He knew everyone would know now...know that you should never break a bard's heart...especially, a bard who had given you everything he possibly could. He gave his thanks to his audience and retired to the bar to order himself a drink or five. The barmaid gave him his first ale for no charge, to thank him for the extra coin she said. He would not deny a free ale for a song. It would be a shame to spend all his new wealth in one place. He's chatting up the barkeep, when someone else at the bar makes his company.

"You're a very talented bard, little songbird. I'm afraid I never caught your name", it's a deep voice, belonging to what Jaskier could call a beyond handsome man, any day. Dark brown hair, wonderful chin, he even smells nicer than most folk. Jaskier decides why not. Surely, he could have a little fun to push his heartbreak a little further down, to try to drain it from his heart.

"Jaskier, my name is Jaskier. And what name shall I call you, handsome?"

"You might be a little quick, calling me handsome, but my name is Eskel. It's nice to meet you, Jaskier." The man turns to face Jaskier, purposely blank of emotion in his face, now Jaskier can see the root of the man's comment. Scars drag across the entire right side of his face. Jaskier thinks it makes him all the more handsome. Eskel worries this will be where the beautiful bard turns him down like so many people had done.

"Afraid it's much harder to be rid of me. Those only make me think you more handsome, Eskel. A face that tells a story holds vastly more beauty and intrigue, than one that does not."

Jaskier is always confident and powerful, but hidden by humility, and he uses it all the time. It's only when he spots the eyes of gold that he feels...empty.

"Oh, another witcher it seems. Handsome and charming as you seem dear heart, I believe I've had my fill of witchers for...some time. I'm sure you heard my songs tonight…" Eskel is heartbroken because for once it isn't his face or even his mutant status, or the possible blood on his hands. No, it's that another witcher, one who'd cast him aside plenty of years ago had broken the bard's heart. For once, it hadn't been anything Eskel did or was, and life still would not grant him fine company for even a night.

"Yes, I am terribly sorry about Geralt. You're not the only heart he's cast off." Ah, a shared pain. Truly responsible for the most intense and powerful bonds. Trauma does that somehow.

"I am too. Some would say heartbreak is the best muse, but frankly, she could go fuck herself for all I care." Golden eyes widen, but a smile quickly spreads across his face and his lips reveal a deep chuckle hiding in the depths. It's the best sound Jaskier has heard in a month...and Jaskier thinks about how unfair it would be to fault Eskel for the misdeeds of another.

"Perhaps you're not as bad as him. In all our shared years, he has only smiled a handful of times, and has never laughed with me. Couldn't even admit we were friends."

"He's been a truly miserable soul like that, for a long, long, time…"

"You know Eskel, perhaps I was too quick to think about denying you my company. You'll have to forgive me, a little anyway. A broken heart doesn't make good company, at least not the one in my chest."

"You seem to be dealing with everything soundly, in your own way. I could be wrong, but...I think you'll end up just fine, songbird." Eskel has a lopsided smile on display, wanting more than anything, to just gaze if nothing else. Jaskier thinks that, just for tonight, he can swear off his oath of newfound solitude.

"Say, Eskel. Is there anything you're fond of, or good at besides slaying monsters and looking pretty?" There's that shameless confidence that flows so stubbornly through Jaskier's character.

Eskel can't say he's surprised, but he isn't used to such an invitation. Less so, to one so bold. He thinks of a play, so he doesn't seem so lonely or desperate to know the bard's every curve and thought. Even as the blush and flustered look on his face betrays this notion.

"What about this, songbird. Play me in gwent. If I win, you have to write a song about me. I'll provide whatever inspiration you need to write, I know art isn't just magically made. And if you win...we can do whatever you had in mind…" It's a bold answer to a bold proposal, but Eskel can't help it. He wants to learn more about Jaskier, to enjoy his company, because he'll admit he had been alone for a long time. No one had graced him with such a smile in a very, achingly, long time and he selfishly wanted to see more of it.

"Your deck or mine, dear heart?" Jaskier is thrilled and fully expecting to take from Eskel anything he wanted. Eskel swears the smile that stretches across his face is one filled with happiness, but he can admit, there's also stubborn pride. Surely he could beat a human bard, he'd probably been alive decades before the bard was even born.

The two pick a table where no one else sits, far in the dark corner of the room. It's decided that they'll switch decks after one round so that the decks can't possibly favor one of them more than the other. Though, neither of them wanted to cheat out of respect for the bet and one another. It wasn't above Jaskier to cheat a bastardly person out of their entire monetary value, or Eskel to spite his fellow wolves. Eskel thought that all his years playing his fellow wolves and other people on the road would have given him a better advantage over Jaskier, but the dastardly bard was very quickly turning the whole game to his favor. Eskel was definitely charmed by the bard about half way in. He wanted to see if this songbird could beat all the witchers out of their purses.

"Eskel, do you have someplace to stay tonight? A room I mean?" Jaskier said with a warmth Eskel couldn't place, uncertain if the warmth came from his heart or his...loins. No one much cared where he stayed unless they owned the place.

"No, I was going to just...best you at gwent and then ride through the night, in all honesty. Though, I was expecting to leave...some time sooner." There was an uncertainty that question wrought from the depths of his mind. What did it matter if he had somewhere to sleep tonight? Surely, Geralt and the songbird had camped before. Jaskier reveals nothing after the question and only gives a small smile at Eskel's curiosity. Jaskier knew the witcher had been thinking he'd be easy prey and that Eskel was likely to just go stubbornly sleep amongst the trees. He wasn't about to let that happen.

It's in Eskel's confusion and unfocused attention, Jaskier goes for the throat and wins the game. He's a truly dramatic person in all aspects if the way he does a little dance and cheers next to the table is anything for Eskel to go off of. It's enough of a distraction, to feel that contagious happiness, to forget just what he'd promised if he lost. Jaskier let's him forget for those few seconds it takes to pack up the decks of cards and finish their drinks. Eskel doesn't notice immediately when Jaskier stops all movements to just...smile with mischief at him, but when he does it feels like Jaskier has stolen all the breath from his body. 

"You, dearest, and all your things...are coming upstairs with me. I have a room rented for the night, where I expect you to stay with me all, night, long. Completely under my care." 

It still feels like Eskel can't breathe, and he hates to admit that he might be completely bewitched by this bard he'd stumbled across. All in a single day. He still feels uncertainty lingering in his bones, but a bet was a bet. Eskel finds his resolve because if he's honest with himself, he was hoping to follow the bard upstairs at the end of the night anyway.

"Lead the way, songbird." In a moment of less thoughts than emotions, Eskel lightly takes Jaskier's hand without consideration. He's truly surprised when Jaskier just holds it tighter. They go up the stairs and Jaskier leads him down the hall to the last room on the left. There was a filled bath of clean water, a nicely covered bed, a fireplace off to the far wall, it was a quaint little room. Jaskier started the fire to warm the room up and then stood, appraising Eskel- who had not done more than step in and close the door behind him. Eskel didn't know what to do. He'd had plenty of people drag him to beds, but none with this...gentleness. They'd seen him as a prize, something they won and now got to horde for a night. Jaskier didn't do that and that was the scary part because he truly had no idea what he'd signed on for.

Jaskier had wanted to drag the witcher up to his room, but for reasons probably so far beyond anyone's consideration. He wanted to truly care for Eskel for a night. Jaskier knew how hard the path was, maybe he had never walked it for himself, but he had walked next to it, had been living next to it for two decades. No, he didn't drag Eskel up here to simply use him for his own pleasure and then toss him into the cold. Jaskier was going to show Eskel care like he'd never seen. Jaskier felt there existed a special essence in all forms of life, one that needed to be shown love and nurtured (unless of course, there was a blatantly obvious reason not to, like when they tried to eat him). 

The glint in Jaskier's eyes gave Eskel nerves. He felt like prey under his watchful and assessing eyes. Jaskier walked towards him and he just stared into Jaskier's eyes, unsure of where this was going. When Jaskier reached him, all Jaskier did was cup his cheek. His scarred cheek, one that normally made any suitors leave, that made him think of himself as an ugly outsider to the world. But Jaskier showed no disgust or fear, his hands only petting at Eskel's cheeks. Eskel didn't remember closing his eyes, but when he opens them there are very fond blue eyes staring back at him. He doesn't know what to do with this vulnerable feeling in his heart.

"Eskel, do you trust me? If only for tonight?" And what can Eskel say to that. Those blue eyes softly tearing him apart...

"Y-yes. Ask of me what you want…"

"Let me care for you tonight. Show you affection...though you may turn anything you dislike down immediately. I don't want anything that you don't willingly give to me."

"Okay…" Eskel's voice sounds so small and hushed, even to himself. He hasn't spoken like that in ages, since his boyhood.

Jaskier starts disrobing him with gentle hands and all he can do is stand there and feel every tug of fabric as it leaves his body. Jaskier doesn't rush and gently sets everything from his swords to his socks very neatly on the corner of the bed, save for Eskel's heavy boots, which he places gently next to the door. Even when all his clothing is removed, Eskel still feels safe, and not just because he could snap Jaskier in half with a hand tied behind his back. It's Jaskier. Jaskier has made him feel safe. Jaskier hasn't once made him so much as frown or made him feel ugly. 

"I'm going to bathe you, wash and comb your hair. I'll be gentle, I promise." And if Eskel thought that it was hard to breathe before, his lips were surely turning blue now. His skin felt like he had been dipped in fire, he was burning with no flames. He couldn't find the space in his mind to care. Eskel was too caught up with the feel of those gentle and focused fingers sliding across his body and guiding him across the room and into the tub. 

The water was cold, but he found relief in it. It eased his hot skin and the dull aches of injuries from his most recent job where he'd gotten bruised. His eyes slipped close and his shoulders sagged like a great weight had been removed from them. He feels Jaskier dragging a cloth with lye on it over his skin, carefully removing the grime and all traces of unpleasantness from his skin. Jaskier does not go below his belt, so to speak, and lets him do that part. Jaskier was truly devoted to his comfort and he'd never thought to want for such tenderness, but it was all he was going to think about for months to come. Maybe...for the rest of time.

Those gentle hands guide him again to scoot him just slightly forward in the bath. To wash his hair, Eskel thinks, with his last capable thought before relaxation overcomes his very being. Jaskier takes a hand and drags it up his neck to hold his chin and Eskel lets out a soft moan at the endearing treatment. His head is tilted back and water is carefully poured over his hair and then those lovely hands are rubbing into his scalp and hair with such calmness and pressure. The smells of whatever Jaskier is using in the water is well chosen because it doesn't burn his nose and instead evokes a calmness. Eskel can't help as his mouth hangs open without a sound and his eyes flutter closed again.

A rustle of a bag, and then there's a sweet smell in the air and those fingers Eskel thinks he'll be in love with until the end of time are rubbing the smell into his hair. Then, a comb softly makes its way through his hair and the feeling of it dragging along his scalp is the best he's ever felt. He was convinced nothing would ever feel as good as right now. Jaskier finishes a century too soon. 

"Eskel dear, it is time to get out of the tub and move to the bed. I'll help you up, and dry you off. Don't be afraid to lean on me if you feel...wobbly. " Jaskier is whispering to him and then doing exactly as he said. Eskel is surprised Jaskier had predicted his wobbly legs, but he's too relaxed and feeling calm to care. He feels soft cloth dragging over him in an effort to dry his soaking skin. He's then laid out on the bed. Eskel is confused, where did that magnificent set of hands go? It feels like without Jaskier's touch, he would sink into the bed and never stop falling. He doesn't register the whine that hangs in the air as his own for a second, and the second he does, Jaskier is back to touching him again.

Jaskier is in his small clothes now, presumably to sleep, and is rubbing his soothing hands all down Eskel's back and shoulders and thighs. Eskel swears nothing will ever compare. Jaskier starts to knead out the tough muscles beneath his hands. Eskel can't stop the sounds of contentment and pure bliss from spilling from his lips. Soft moans and tiny sighs that just don't stop, he can't even find it in himself to feel ashamed at basking in such treatment. Eskel loved it. He couldn't keep his eyes open, even though he tried (half-heartedly) to stay awake long enough to see himself properly put to bed.

"What a sight. Such a softy you are for me, dear heart. You've made my night so much better. Are you ready to sleep?"

Eskel can't find words, his mind is so pleasantly numb and calm, like it's never been before. He gives a weak nod and hopes Jaskier can interpret the confirmation. Jaskier does because he's been watching every inch of Eskel, seeking to understand his feelings and to do nothing but pamper him. Jaskier's attentive ways were what every partner loved so deeply about him. He pulls the blankets from under Eskel and himself, never letting a hand leave Eskel's skin. He tucked a pillow under the witcher's head and pulled the blanket up high upon their shoulders. He gave in to his caring nature and pulled Eskel (and scooted the rest of the distance) to his chest.

"Sleep dear heart, for as long as you desire. I'll be here when you wake." 

Jaskier leaves a small kiss behind Eskel's ear and lets himself sleep too.


	5. Sleepy Mornings

Eskel wakes up first and can't believe it. He's tucked into Jaskier's tight embrace and nothing about his body aches as it normally does. He's a little disturbed to find himself naked as the day he was born and cuddled up to a man he didn't know much of before yesterday. He'd be a liar to say he wasn't delighted alongside embarrassed though. Eskel doesn't want to get up, wants to lay here and leach all of Jaskier's warmth and attention. If he left now, he could make it out of town before the bard wakes up. He wants to flee from the vulnerability. 

Jaskier, even asleep, won't let go of Eskel. Every move Eskel makes to leave is met with force he wasn't sure the bard should have, but if he told himself the truth, he wasn't all that eager to leave. The night had been something Eskel didn't even understand how badly he'd needed it. He had taught himself that he could live without it, but he can’t remember why. It seems all his wriggling had woken the bard and now there truly was no way out without a good explanation.

"Trying to run away without even saying goodbye, dear heart? ...That's so terribly rude." If words could kill a man, then Jaskier could murder anyone. He felt guilt simmering beneath his skin.

"I'm...not used to being kept rather than given the boot, so I thought…" Eskel isn't sure what he was going to say, but if Jaskier kept looking at him like that- like he was a treasure- he'd run for the door against his better judgment. His words couldn't hope to be recovered the moment his eyes locked with Jaskier's. Those deep blue eyes held a fondness he'd never been given by anyone other than fellow witchers and he didn't feel guilty anymore. The bard was pulling his leg, he should have known.

"I understand the feeling. I've fled many chambers before...I hope you know you needn't run from me at this point. If you don't, then that's up to you. I'd like to think I could change your mind whenever our paths cross again, dear."

Eskel still feels awestruck at Jaskier. Funny, caring, god given talent in his hands, the deepest eyes, and now Eskel would have to live forever knowing the husky tone of Jaskier's voice at first light too. This bard had to have been hand-crafted by some higher power looking to make the image of perfection. Eskel couldn't help it, he wanted so much more. More than he ever thought he could. Ambitions he thought were forever out of his reach. He couldn't put it into words though because every flirtatious line and skilled navigation of feelings he'd ever managed to learn had melted right out of his ears when he looked Jaskier in the eyes. It felt how he imagined being lost at sea felt. Jaskier’s eyes were a siren’s song without a single tune sung because Eskel could feel the tune came from Jaskier’s very being. The love which the man gave to everyone he possibly could. If this is what being lost at sea felt like, he would happily float among the waves until he drowned. 

Jaskier is not new to the infatuations of men or women, or those who lie between. He knows the feeling that lies deep in his chest, hidden behind his ribs and within his heart. It’s the same curiosity a child has when they pull on a sweater’s loose threads. He wants to unravel the man before him with gentle hands, just to see what he is made of. That is not how people work though, he could pull on all the loose threads and the person under him could stay a person instead of wither. That was the great thing about people and knowing how to pull strings. They’re made from so many threads that even if he pulled every thread...there would be more to discover, more woven into them with time, everyone is a beautiful patchwork. He wanted to truly know Eskel. He was a patchwork so similar to others and yet, entirely different. 

The two kept their eyes locked, trapped in their thoughts of one another. There was a delicate way they stared into each other. Jaskier saw Eskel’s noble nature and his deeply crippled thoughts of himself and made a vow to see the witcher again if he could to help him be happier. Eskel saw Jaskier’s very full heart, even the bits tainted with sorrow, could see the age and wisdom he had gained with experience rather than age. That his bones were haunted already. They are each complex men and they knew it.

“Jaskier...will I see you again?” It was a whisper so faint and so full of hope.

“I would like to hope so. Where are you headed, dearest heart?” 

“Wherever the path leads me...there is really only one place you’d be sure to find me, but I cannot ask you to come with me at this time. Maybe one day, but not so soon. I am busy for the winter, but perhaps I could find you? In spring?” That same hope bubbled in their blood. These feelings shouldn’t be let go, it would be like ignoring fate while she lay right beside you.

“I..um, I think I have an idea. I am the scholarly sort. My university would probably welcome me in exchange for some teaching now that I’m of continental renown. You can find me in Oxenfurt come spring, either as a teacher or a struggling bard staying in town. Does, does that sound agreeable?” There was a nervous laughter within Jaskier’s whispers. So afraid to be alone and unwilling to let anyone close enough to the depths of his heart in case they should take a stab at it.

“It’s a long way to winter still, don’t mistake me, I’d love to see you again sooner too. I just...I want to see you again...it would feel wrong to never see you again, if you’ll let me make your company. You don’t have to-” 

A hand that pets across Eskel’s cheek quiets him wordlessly. The nerves that had been burying themselves in his skin like worms are pronounced dead under those fingertips that leave only wonder and affection in their wake, though Eskel would not bet they had not also wreaked some chaos too. Wide eyes like molten gold meet those eyes like blue sea glass and they each know that something deeper has been created here. Eskel can feel his heartbeat in the back of his throat, can feel his pupils get wider than he’s let them stretch in years, can feel the heat leave the hide on his back, can feel a soft burning in his chest. His own hand reaches out to grip Jaskier’s chin between his thumb and palm. Jaskier’s lips look like they could put the softest cottons and silks to shame, and he wants to taste but doesn’t know what he’s allowed to take without being given. He looks for guidance in those deep blues he committed every line of to memory already. He barely has time to look into them before they close and then soft lips are moving against his own. 

And it’s oh so terribly gentle compared to everything around him, though he knows he shouldn’t have expected anything different from the miracle entangled with him. He feels like they need to be closer, but knows there isn’t any real way they could get closer. They’re chest to chest with legs braided together and hands twisted around each other, lips all but glued together. And then Jaskier’s lips leave and their foreheads are braced upon one another and the whole world seems to wake up around them and everything feels right. 

He really doesn’t want to leave, but he felt the duty of the path’s call. He couldn’t stay. But gods, he _wanted_.

Eskel plants a small kiss to those hauntingly soft lips and makes his way out of bed. The two get dressed and don’t even hide from one another’s gaze. They were far beyond strangers now. Jaskier needn’t say anything because he already knows the look in Eskel’s face. He’d seen it in the faces of so many; men off to war, nobility at a marriage they didn’t like, a sailor set out to sea. It was the face of burden, of duty.

Goodbyes were always the worst part of caring, but knowing it wouldn’t be forever makes it easier.

With a stolen kiss in the stables, the two parts ways.

Heartbreak couldn’t touch Jaskier anymore because he wasn’t truly broken. A heart that still knows love is never truly shattered. Even when it has convinced itself of such miserable lies. 


	6. Fate Is A Picky Mistress

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Guys, I spoiled yall and myself with the sweet chapters. This one does not follow in its footsteps. 
> 
> TRIGGER WARNINGS: There is mentions and talks of s*icide and feeling out of control of oneself. There is murder and lots of scar talk.
> 
> Please only read this one if you are feeling well and if you have time. This is a very long chapter, it's meant to cover the big events between Jaskier meeting Eskel and where the chapter ends. The next chapter will pick up with the next morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> READ THE SUMMARY BEFORE ANYTHING ELSE. IT IS IMPORTANT THIS TIME AROUND.

Jaskier keeps moving forward. He was determined to let nothing get in the way of achieving his goals. It took time- to learn how to be on his own again. He didn’t have a certain wolf to light the fire or keep the creatures of the forest away from him while he slumbered. And he had always been a stupid kid looking for a rush and adventure no matter what it cost him. These risks and struggles had been expected. He finally understood why Roach was the only person worth talking to in Ger...in a certain man’s head during their travels. He supposed it wasn’t really all that different talking to a horse compared to his severed companion because the horse was more sociable and hell, even more polite to Jaskier. He would rather die alone with a horse than waste away inside a court these days. Courts held a danger the woods didn’t. In a court, he might never even see who or what killed him, but the woods didn’t partake in that same anonymity that court nobility relied on. He would sooner meet his end by his own hands than go back to the life of nobility. 

So he camped. He traveled still, and he was happy to do it alone aside from a horse, a beautiful and big work horse. He’d picked her up from one of his gambling games. He cheated, but the man he’d won it from was a bastard and he deserved to be down a good horse and anything else Jaskier had stolen off him. Guilt did not strife him here. 

\-------

The road without monster contracts was so different, especially alone. It was dangerous and it felt like tempting the wrath of Lady Death or deities of misfortune to be so alone at nearly all times. Maybe, Fate had a vested interest with him, but then again, maybe she was done with him already. He was never sure with the way life made a habit of bestowing gifts upon him, only for them to be painfully tarnished or ripped away from him with time. Eventually this caught up to him, more than once. Both the aloneness and the danger.

He’d just been passing through a poorer village to reach a city where he might find an audience worth a stay. The plan was to stay camped outside, not wanting to spend coin for the more expensive city stay. Where there was poverty, there was also desperation. Desperation was good for his material, but not his business- this he knew all too well. The desperate, though he didn’t blame them, lead to less unfortunate traits of the human condition. Bandits, thieves, piracy, they were all breeds of desperation and had made their way through less than ideal means. He understood it, he was a cheater at cards, a troublesome fuck, a screaming poet...when he was desperate. He would even go so far as to say he was crazy behind his act of complacency and unintelligent ramblings. There was a darkness that followed him and when he was tired or stressed, it would catch up to him with sharp talons.

It was about time he was punished for his self vanity, the world had decided, because her punishment of a darkness that lived under the skin draped on his bones was no longer punishment enough. And so, Life sent bandits through the same poor village that had no spoils and into the same forest as his camp. It wasn’t a delicate thing, to stab someone to death and watch their body empty crimson onto the ground like a fumbled inkpot. What else was he to do? They had pinned him to the tree to rob him and he just couldn’t deal with the proximity of it all. This never happened to him. He always thought a dagger was a fickle thing to carry, but he had carried it for necessity and for when that darkness consumed him and it felt like the only way to be rid of it was to bleed it out, and it had been right there in his boot. It was always where he needed it. It was a matter of acting without thinking, an act of rage and aggression born of his scraped heart that still ached. He could use that darkness under his skin for something productive. It was no delicate thing to drive a dagger through a person’s neck. But by now, Jaskier knew better than to think all he could do was delicate work. So his hands being stained meant nothing to him or that darkness.

He’d killed the one holding him away from his things in a fit of hasty stabs to the neck. Blood was never a preferred taste, but taste it he did. The bandits crew was in a fit of adrenaline he had no control over. There was a desperation, a mania, a frenzy in his blood. He caught the edges of blades often because his goal wasn’t to defend, it was to be rid of the unwanted company for good. It was a release for that inky cloud inside him that latched on to the outpourings of his heart to use against him. He didn’t care about the cuts to his arms or his leg, afterall, he’d put some there himself before. There was one bandit, clearly so terribly young, a child in a cruel world. Why he did it, he did not know...but he killed her on principle and in his bloodlust and in her last breath she caught him down the face with a dagger all her own. The taste of iron wouldn’t leave him for days, but the images stayed in his dreams. Fate didn’t much like him anymore, he voiced to the night air as he patched the skin he knew would never be perfect again. He knew there would be a long scar upon his cheek, a permanent split to his lip. Scars he hoped lasted because he saw them as penance for his actions, a reminder of what monster he’d become, of that darkness inside him that only music tamed. No, he thought, Fate truly hates me.

He doesn’t much like himself anymore, he thinks, as he loots and hides the bodies in the overgrowth.

\------

Fate wants to prove her point because come early autumn, the next affair that Jaskier partakes in goes terrible for him, if he does say so. The husband, who just happened to be the local executioner finds him in bed burying more than just his sorrows into the executioner’s son. A window escape was not the end to the night he had planned, but it was all he could do to keep his life. Jaskier felt bad about leaving the son to figure his own way out of this, but he also wanted to keep his head on his shoulders. He cared only because he knew that pain, it was why he’d left the life of nobility so long ago.

He takes off that night, pulls his horse that he for no good reason named Melody from the paid stable and packs everything up for a night of hard riding to end up far away from the chopping block. He doesn’t even take notice for what direction he’s going, he just needs to leave. Where he ends up is not something he cares for. Melody, ever a good horse at this point, carries him far away, or as far away as she can before there are body parts of some beast bleeding on the path before her. He knows those body parts, that nasty reptilian skin. Wyverns, of course. But that does not explain the bloody body parts and the lack of lifeforms around it. Something killed this beast. There comes a roar from behind him and he can do nothing but cringe into himself. Oh yes, this would be where he dies, he thinks. Wyverns didn’t enjoy the presence of other wyverns all the time. He figures one wyvern has torn apart the other. He mulls his options. Running doesn’t seem to be for the best, the beast would be all too happy to chase.

He in some ballsy move he doesn’t dare think about, turns his horse around in a slow fashion to meet the beast’s eyes. Like he always does, he talks against logic.

“You do this big...girl?” Fuck, he knew it was the ladies you really had to look out for. At least it was younger.

“Not you then? That body seems bigger than you, another female. I reckon that was your mother then. So my chances are a little better because you’re a baby and not hungry, else you’d have eaten me already. Thanks for not biting me anyway. This has been a nice little talk but I should probably be on my way, yeah? See I have plans-”

He doesn’t get to finish the idiotic notion of persuading the wyvern to leave him alone because it’s hissing and running at full speed in his direction. His once so tamed horse starts freaking out and trying to run, but just walks a few startled paces to the side because Jaskier knows how to command a horse, thank you.

“Oh, hell. Oh, no. This is not what kills me, I simply refuse. Fate, how do I be in your favor once more?” 

Jaskier is just rattling off anything to be in good graces with the gods above and it must work because the creature just takes to the sky and blows the hood of his cloak down. It also clearly had a price to be in favor because there was an angry and black-eyed witcher barreling towards him in place of the wyvern now. What irony. He knew what the potions of the trade did to the witchers, but for the first time he was truly scared of a witcher. This one seemed all too eager to shred him apart.

He didn’t want to see the witcher kill him though, so he stubbornly just closed his eyes and waited for either a beating or a quick sword. When nothing happened, he opened his eyes to see the witcher fallen flat against the dirt. The pounding in his ears settled. Oh, this was a terrible thing. His big heart wouldn’t let him leave even if it would be his death. He dismounted and tied Melody to the nearest tree and approached the witcher to do an assessment. There was no way he cleared a wyvern nest and didn’t get some injury or exhaustion.

With quick and practiced hands Jaskier felt for physical injury on the collapsed witcher. There was a gash on his arm and a broken rib or two, nothing internal. What he didn’t look at first, was the witcher’s eyes. He’d had a potion, clearly, but he’d had too much of it upon closer inspection. The blackness bled all the way across his face and started dropping lower. There was an antidote for this, witchers carried it in their bags…

“Where are your bags? I need to get your cure!” Jaskier didn’t know why he felt so desperate.

“T-tree.” It was a growl filled with pain that didn’t ease Jaskier’s heart one bit. 

But since when did the stubborn bard give up, especially on helping others? He looked at every tree as best he could in the moonlight and it was feeling fruitless. The curses escaped his lips like bats leaving a cave. He truly was an idiot, the bag was in the same tree he’d tied Melody on. His mind would surely call him nasty things with the memory later. He felt the panic rise in his chest like some spider trying to crawl from its hiding place, the anxiety taking over his heartbeat. He cut the bag loose with his dagger and stumbled back to the collapsed witcher as he felt for the right potion. It was ingrained in his memory what that bottle felt like, he’d dug for it so many times when...when Geralt had stumbled to him for aid. Witchers really would die without his very existence, or so it felt. It took but a second for all the practice to pay off.

The bottle was easily uncorked and he was forcing the liquid down the throat of the collapsed witcher and holding a firm hand over dark lips to force everything to stay in. It was starting to feel like the witcher was dead already and he was merely trying to revive a corpse, but after a few moments the body beneath him shot up. He wasn’t out of the woods yet apparently because the witcher, in record time, had him pinned to the bloody dirt by the neck seconds later and had a silver dagger at his ear. It was all a bit much for Jaskier, being honest. It was a long night before wyverns and witchers. He was tired and all adrenaline had drained from him, he had no more to give. Simply, he could not give any less of a fuck if Fate was about to throw him away for good. It was only on instinct and habit he started speaking.

“A thanks for saving your life might have been a better first step, witcher who I don’t know the name of yet. But my name, if you were interested, is Jaskier and I’m simply a humble bard fleeing the nearest town because I was caught in the wrong bed. Which I really outa’ get back to doing, lest someone come searching for my plump ass to put on a chopping block.”

“How did you know? What are you?” Ah, that was an angry man indeed. Jaskier figures he might as well get on with the awkward introduction and bring up the thorn in his heart. He couldn’t catch a break tonight.

“I’m sure you know Toss A Coin. Well someone had to hang out long enough to write those songs, you daft idiot. I was that man for awhile, in my past. Hate to break it to you, witcher, but you’re not my first witcher, not even my second. Fate keeps having me cross paths with you lot, SO often at this point. I will say, only one of you has been lovely company-”

The witcher is laughing at him, deep laughter from the core. Normally, he’d be fine to take laughter at his expense...but tonight he hadn’t a single reason to laugh. Everything hurt, every wound of the heart he had was being toyed with and it felt like such a load of horseshit the way Fate was playing with him. He just didn’t understand why things had to go this way. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fun. It instilled such a feeling of betrayal in his bones, betrayed by life once more. If he was honest with himself, he hoped the witcher thanked him with a dagger through the heart. It would be fitting, in his mind, the darkness in him was content to wish for his own death rather than the witchers. Jaskier would never hurt a witcher, gods help him. 

“I had a feeling the bard who wrote such a song was the bold type, not quite the suicidal type though.”

“You don’t know me well enough to say such a thing…” It was a hidden threat in whispered words that betrayed the portrait of a stupid bard Jaskier had crafted to add to his deck of metaphorical cards. He’d brushed death on the cheek before, sometimes with force, sometimes of his own accord. He didn’t shy away from admitting that.

“Shit, sorry bard. Also, wyvern ate my horse and I still need to turn in my contract...could I maybe ask to ride with the gutsy bard, who writes such shitty songs?” The-once again-golden eyes of the witcher were searching his face.

“I don’t even know your name and you’ve just laughed at my music AND you still have my throat in your hands. Hardly polite of you. I may have guts and good looks, but unless you have a fancy for heavy-shouldered human fools like myself, I’m no threat to you, dearest witcher.” It's a biting tone.

“Lambert, my name is Lambert...and who said a hand across the throat was a threat?” Lambert was bold with his name, but he whispered so faintly with the last part. It was a thought he’d meant to keep to himself Jaskier realized. Jaskier would let him hide behind the notion that part went unheard. Burying his sorrows in other people had done enough to his life for tonight. 

“Well Lambert, I’d say it’s nice to make your acquaintance, but given the circumstance, I’d say it’s fair if I didn’t say such a thing. Go on, go collect your trophies and your gear, I’ll go make sure Melody is still ready for travel. She should be good to go, strong constitution and all that…

You can get off me whenever your legs are steady again…”

Lambert realizes he’s been sitting with his full weight on Jaskier the whole conversation. Embarrassment flooded his mind, but he was too stubborn to show it. He gave a nod to let the bard know he’d understood. It took only a few seconds to start processing everywhere he and the bard were in contact. Lambert really did himself in with this move, and the bard kept digging his grave even deeper with witty remarks. He’d straddled the bard to pin him to the ground with his own weight and to trap the bard by the neck. It had been an act of self-protection, but when he didn’t need to protect himself it quickly became something else. If the bard wasn’t human, he’d smell Lambert’s embarrassed desire. Lambert told himself it was because the bard saved his life and let him stay over him without question until he felt he could stand again, that the bard was just a comfort after a daring fight. 

If he was more keen on telling himself the truth, he’d probably point it out in his head it was because Jaskier was not only all those things, but because the bard was attractive and not afraid of him without reason, even with a hand around the neck.

Lambert got up before the point where Jaskier would be able to tell what he was thinking.

His legs were still wobbling underneath him and he hated it. Even if his brothers trusted this bard, anyone who knew so much of the path without being a witcher could absolutely not be trusted. Not that his reputation said he was trusting, Lambert really trusted no one. But, this bard did not give him any ill feelings yet and had saved his life. He would find or ask for a way of repayment in the morning, first, he had to collect his coin. Right, sounds like a solid plan. Hunting and dressing knife drawn, Lambert takes a head and a long stretch of hide from the fallen wyvern. He salvages the gear he can, given his horses...end.

Out of the corners of his eyes, he watches the bard that ignites a curiosity within him. The man is clearly deranged. Trying to talk his way out with a wyvern, saving a witcher who was aiming to kill him, and then offering said witcher back to the town he’d just fled. This couldn’t be right. But...he owed the bard. Running away was going against destiny and it would surely be his end to disgrace destiny in such a way.

He told himself there was no possibility that the bard was fetching. That he didn’t want to stare into deep blue eyes that held such visceral emotions and raw feelings. That those broad shoulders and thick muscles hidden behind a fancy shirt and skin tight leather pants wouldn’t be worth running his hands and lips across. That those strong hands and even stronger wit tearing into him was what he wanted. That he wants to know where a bard gets scars across the face or what he does in beds to be run out of towns. That he wants to hear more songs than the one he knows the bard for.

No, none of those were possibilities. 

Not in this life of his. 

He couldn’t have such things...ever.

But,

Maybe he could get the bard to play along for a day though...the bard had said he wasn’t the first witcher, so just maybe.

Maybe has to be enough sometimes.

He mounts the horse behind the bard, all his stuff secured. They make their way back to town and he can feel the tension, a tension he knows all too well, rise in the bard. The bard expected a fight; and based on the scars he could see, it wouldn’t go in their favor. What a shit show.

\-------

Jaskier puts his horse back in the stable. Why pay for something twice right! If he wasn’t dead tired and in a witchers company, he might worry that staying was a terrible idea. He knew he couldn’t ride like this, not before he mended his mind and got some well earned rest. But Lambert’s presence prevented him from heading off and camping. He could feel all those pains he’d buried so deep trying to claw their way out from behind his ribs like desperate little bugs. It made his skin itch and burn, but he would not scratch at himself with company. Lambert didn’t need to know he was fucking crazier than he let on, he gave a silent chuckle at his thoughts.

Lambert drags the bard along with him. The bard looks like he’s outside of his own head and its a little worrisome. I’d be out the door if he didn’t owe this loose-screwed loon. So he gets a room at the inn and takes the bard along with him. He could figure his own shit out in the morning. For now, he had a crazy bard to put to bed and wounds to tend to. The owner gives him a bucket of clean water when he asks. Sometimes a simple whore’s bath and some wound tending is all he can do, it happens. He and the bard are in the room now. 

It’s a simple room. A bed, a table, a chair, fireplace, and now a bucket of water and two filthy men. One more so, it was impossible to slay beasts and not become filthy through some means. Perfect for a single nights stay, all they needed. Lambert starts putting bags down, including the bards, after he puts the bucket on the table. He takes a seat in the chair. It’s tedious to remove so much gear and armor, but he’s done it most of his life and its become quick work. He could wait on the wounds for a moment, they didn’t need anything more than a cleaning. Plus he's sure the bard wouldn't want bloodied water.

Lambert flicks the bard in the forehead.

“You there bard? Fancy a whore’s bath before bed? You stink.”

“Fine, fine. I agree, I reek like almost-dead witcher, who's an asshole, and sweat.”

The bard, Jaskier, he reminds himself, fetches his own cloth from his own bags and heads over to the bucket. Lambert looks away for a good while, but like all people, curiosity gets the better of him. Gold-yellow eyes drink in the thick skin of the bard’s back. It’s such smooth skin that clearly hides strong muscle and Lambert’s mind supplies what it might feel like beneath his hands. His thoughts of how fetching the bard really is all slam back into his mind at once. But when Jaskier turns, all Lambert can focus on is the many scars on his skin. They’re all over his skin, his arms and chest, his face. Somewhere in his mind it clicks, those are mostly defensive scars. The bard had caught blades, not fangs or talons, not accidents. These were all brandings of bad fortune. Maybe Jaskier had a right to be crazy if life had tried to cut through him so many times. When Lambert’s eyes were done drinking those lines of discolored skin in, his mind returned to just how handsome the bard was. 

Even with those scars on it, the bard’s face was deceptively soft. His body on the other hand...Lambert couldn’t help the very full swallow he made. He was right about the bard having broad shoulders and looking like a depiction of sin. Jaskier is a beautiful man. His soft face being in deep contrast to jutting collarbones and outlined muscle Lambert was sure was strong enough to choke a man to death, The hair that lay on the bard’s chest was damp from the light washing and Lambert thought it had to be magic with how it was plastered to the skin. But what makes Lambert so sure he’s died and gone to a better place, is the trail of hair below the bard’s stomach, the hair that leads down into those too-tight leather pants...he’s staring helplessly, he knows he’s been caught by now.

Blue eyes are already waiting for his gaze when he looks up. The building guilt dies when he sees the heat in those eyes, when he sees the teasing twist of those soft lips. He’s convinced those lips have a tange to them. He hopes he can find out for himself.

“Glad to know I’m still a sight to behold, even though I’m not the image of beauty I once was.

You wouldn’t take offence if I slept without a shirt, would you? I’m afraid I might sweat and ruin my efforts at being clean.” Jaskier just preens. Sex was one of his big coping methods, if he could get it right here…it was a greedy thought. He knew the witcher was tired and hurt, hell, he was too.

Lambert dare not answer with words, lest he reveals his interest. He just nods an affirmation. He makes to remove his own clothes, remembering his wounds when the bruised ribs ache in protest of his breath that has become so deep under the bard’s feverish gaze. He has to peel his undershirt off because the blood from the gash had stuck it to the skin. It's uncomfortable, and he knows it's only going to get more awkward because the bard is still staring him down from next to the bucket.

Jaskier isn't sure why he takes the duty up, but he wets the cloth again with the intention to clean and dress Lambert's wounds. Wasn't he crazy enough for the night? Hadn't he done enough stupid things? He knew better. It had taken so long for Geralt to even let him help when it'd been life or death. But he was going to try anyway, he hadn't really anything to lose if it went poorly. 

Lambert let him, to the surprise of each of them. Jaskier decides it'd be silly not to do the whole job. It starts with gently wiping off the dirt from around the gash, but eventually he finds himself washing at Lambert's face. The witcher's expression looks like he's lost, like he can't believe it but he's content to let it happen. Jaskier would be a liar if he said it didn't make him happy enough to let a light smile loose. And then he's kneeling between Lambert's knees to get the grime off the witcher's neck. 

The show of trust isn't lost on either of them. Lambert could reach Jaskier and Jaskier had Lambert's neck underneath his fingers. It was a wall of tension, but it was like a spell. There was something more to be had between them...it just wasn't to be discovered right now. And that was fine to Jaskier. He clears his head with a small shake. He doesn't move to get up yet.

"Are you okay to put salve on yourself, Lambert? I'm about ready to sleep. It's been my longest day in awhile…"

"Uh...y-yeah. Do you...need anything?"

"No, I think I'm alright. We can talk some more in the morning if you'll wait a little before you head for the road."

"Sure, yeah...I'll wait for you. To wake up that is."

It's a small moment that's been built with care. Lambert watches as Jaskier removes his pants and crawls into the bed before he even considers getting his healing salve. It weighs heavy on him in that moment, where he's finishing the ritual of patching himself up, that he doesn't have anything to give Jaskier. How does he repay a life debt when he never expected to owe it in the first place, when he had so little to begin with. And then he remembered the scars where the beautiful bard had caught blades. He could offer his affections...he could offer a solution for the scars of the future. He could offer knowledge and a blade from his own collection.

He decided that come morning, he'd offer a blade of his and knowledge of how to use it as payment. He desperately hoped that we be enough...to give all he could offer.


	7. Firm Footing Is The Foundation Of All Things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter picks up where we left off with Lambert and Jaskier, but then it changes to the winter season. This is only early winter though, so the next chapters will be about some of mid winter, the one after probably the end of winter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: There is a little fight that brings up trauma in some of our favorite boys here, but they work it out in this chapter (I'm not trying to break hearts and cause sad tears YET). Also, I did not have a working chapter title so I just threw some shit in there.
> 
> WARNING FOR THE FUTURE: I am not, in general, a happy person. This fic starts happy and will end happy, but some of the meat of this will be quite rotten and Dead Dove: Do Not Eat. If you can't bare that sort of stuff, quit while you are ahead, while the boys are sweet.

It's a thing of magic to wake up and not feel alone. To not feel cold from the depths of the soul buried beneath the caging ribs. It's a magic not often felt in the work of a witcher, and what a deep and burning shame that is. 

It's not something a witcher would ask for, no. 

Never. 

It's an admission. 

To needing more.

To feeling a need to belong.

Lambert wakes slowly for the first time in a long time, no rush to leave. His eyes blink a few times, willing a slow clarity to fill them. He moves to sit up and then it hits him...there are limbs wrapped around him, a chest at his back. It's the bard, he thinks. That utterly handsome idiot that took care of a random witcher. Gratitude settles in his bones. He would let the bard sleep as long as possible. 

Strong arms pull him closer with the help of a wayward leg. There's breath on his neck. A heartbeat to his back. And then it's like there's not enough air in the room for his lungs to take on. A shaky sigh escapes him. Where he and the bard touch it feels so very warm. 

"Good morning, _Lambert_...how's your side?"

Lambert had forgotten about his side before then. He'd been so caught up in the sweetly strong touch the bard so freely gives to him. The bard hasn't moved away, even with newfound wakefulness.

"Better. Almost all the way healed. 'Bout one day until I'm good as new. And you, bard?"

"Oh, I'm _splendid_. You're quite the comfy type to hold on to." 

Jaskied says it with a dramatic squeeze of his limbs, almost as a reminder he's wrapped around the witcher. Lambert can't help the chuckle the bard's dramatics pull from him. Jaskier really was a certain type of crazy, but Lambert doesn't think he minds. There are types of crazy that are so clearly a poison on everything it touches, but Jaskier...Jaskier is the type of crazy where he's pushed to the edge of his metaphorical seat just waiting to see what happens next. It's addictive, to be so wrong in his predictions every time. He hopes so dearly, that the bard will never stop surprising him for the better.

Jaskier is amazed by that small bout of laughter from Lambert. He must really be feeling better, if the lack of a wince is anything of an indication. Jaskier likes to push limits and he's very aware of the fact he pushes them wherever he finds them, in and outside of his own. It's why he decides to push his luck, like he seems to do with all witchers. He twists his arm that's ended up under Lambert’s pillow to place his palm on the witcher's chest. His other hand still lies draped over Lambert’s hip. His leg still over the witcher's thigh. And suddenly it's more than just a funny pose to wake in. 

"Jaskier…?"

"Yes _darling_?"

"What the _fuck_ is this?...I...I don't understand?"

Lambert means it to sound angry, but Jaskier can tell he's just confused on what the bard means. Jaskier isn't put off, he knows the way people treat witchers. The way the world beats them with unjust cruelty and prejudice. He knows it's not because he has done anything wrong, or even unexpected, but because Lambert hasn't known soft touch like this. 

Jaskier is not put off.

He won't stop.

He needs to love, it's what his purpose is.

How to phrase it though...tricky indeed. His fingers start petting at Lambert in a soothing manner.

"There's not much to understand. I like to take care of people...it, helps. I suffer for it sometimes, _often_ , but I'll never stop taking care of those who need it most. I'm not a fool, as much as I play at being one. I suffer the human condition of having a heart so vast. I fall in love with everyone on some level, but the beaten and weary- they are special to me...I've been the beaten and weary soul. Somewhere inside, sometimes outside, I still am. 

No one took care of me. No one helped.

_ Everyone was content to let me drown in it, everyone still is… _

But I can forget that I'm drowning when I care for others and that makes me feel better. Much better. So, in essence, I simply want to care for you because my heart is so _vast_ that I'll drown in it without someone to focus my attention on- and last night I found you- and I will _not_ be satisfied to let you outside my sight until I know you are well off. Don't be put off by it, just embrace it. _Ask whatever you will of me,_

_ I will oblige.  _

_I will provide_."

Lambert thinks he understands now. Not completely, but on a surface level. He thinks, it would only be a true fool to not let the bard take care of them. He leans into the petting, content to let the bard do as he pleases. Jaskier could have let him die already, so really, the bard didn't seem all that bad.

"I think...okay. _Yes_. But on the matter of the life debt...I haven't much to offer you. I thought maybe...a smaller blade, one of my own, and some lessons on how to use it. It's not much, but it's all I can offer. It's all I have."

"You do not owe me _anything_ , Lambert. _I did not save you in order to be owed_." There's a soft wonder in that tone. It makes no sense to Lambert how someone can say something with conviction and not harshness.

" _Please, bard...I want to_. I'd...be comfortable with that."

"If you don't start using my name a little more, I'll have to find something special to call you to return the favor, perhaps... _puppy_.

If that's what you _want_ to do, if it'll ease your mind, then sure. _But understand me_. I know the personal value of a witcher's blades...I know a smaller one isn't the same as your swords, but I know it's important all the same. _Do not do anything you might come to regret later for a man you don't owe_."

Lambert decides he can't bare to not look Jaskier in the eyes anymore. Eyes are windows to the soul, at least with humans. He twists and wiggles until he's turned around, chest to chest to the bard. 

Those eyes meet his gaze... _so blue and true_.

Lambert suddenly believes he would do anything to see those eyes sparkle with happiness. He thinks it would look like glass dust turned rainbow under the sun.

Jaskier cups his cheek and drags a thumb across his face. Across his lips and his cheekbone, his nose and brow. It's such a soft touch...a _tenderness_ Lambert wants to feel always. He pushes the thought that this moment will end and the path lies in wait for him. He kisses Jaskier's palm, showing his own tenderness he would show to no one else.

_ Blue eyes with wide pupils. _

_ Strong hands with a curiosity. _

_ Thick legs with an engulfing pull. _

_ They each pull Lambert apart in different ways. Not one of which, he minds. _

He figures he can risk it, just this once. To be _vulnerable_ , to be cared for. He presses his lips to Jaskier's, and it's so much more than he'd hoped for. He hoped for at best, a gentle rejection where he could build his walls up again and then get on with his life. What he got was Jaskier, kissing him dizzy with feeling hands all over his shoulders and neck. 

He gave tenderness and openness,

Jaskier gave caring and...fondness.

It feels like if he doesn't get _more_ , his entire life would suddenly cease to exist. His hands are grabbing anywhere on Jaskier they can reach. They tangle into his hair, smooth his cheeks, scratch at his chest and dig into his shoulders.

When he pulls back to caution a breath it occurs to him that maybe he was too rough in his searching hands. That maybe he'd scratched too hard, had dug his nails into those shoulders a bit harder than he should have. But he doesn't think he can think anymore when hands grip his jaw and bring his eyes to those blue eyes that hold so much _raw feeling_ , he couldn't begin to decipher everything in those eyes and hope to finish in the next century.

" _Tell me what you want, Lambert, darling._ I can't read minds and I need to hear you say it- _plainly_." And the strength and husk in that voice shouldn't do such things to him, but it does. Gods, it makes him _weak_. It makes him _crave_.

"Want. _I want you_. I want you to fuck me…like I'm _important_ …"

It feels terrible to admit such a thing, a heavy shame in him he knows he shouldn't hold. It was just a response to everything drilled into his head. He wasn't supposed to want. He wasn't supposed to be important. Humans and their fickle beliefs had taught him that some would string him, for wanting to be beneath another man in such a manner. It was these that caused such a strong shame in him. But the best combatant to shame, is understanding. _He feels understood_ by Jaskier. He feels the shame leave him as quickly as it came.

Jaskier is kissing him again and a bone deep desire takes place within him. He lets himself sink into the arms around him, content to be taken care of by such a _fine_ man. 

Ands gods does Jaskier take care of him.

Those strong lute-weathered hands hold him close with an easy tightness and pet his skin and hair with an equally teasing lightness. Those lips kiss every scar and unleash a deliciously sinful tongue on _every_ sensitive spot he thought wasn’t obvious. Jaskier ate at his skin, teeth and lips exactly how he needed it. Jaskier gave him _everything_ he begged for whether he’d used words or actions. The bard dubbed Lambert _his puppy_. Lambert wasn’t sure one the name, not yet, but if this is what it was to be Jaskier’s puppy- he would _gladly_ be called such a thing.

\------

Lambert would pick the blade to give to Jaskier later, teach him some more skilled moves. Because truthfully it was more for him than for Jaskier. Because if he found another scar on that godsdamned bard from taking a blade so head-on he'd surely _sob_. Sometimes, things are all the more beautiful for being damaged, it makes them unique. Jaskier was certainly a beauty, and not just despite scars. The scars played no factor in his beauty.

But they did in _hurt_ , in danger.

That _stupid_ and _gorgeous_ bard would bare no more hurt or damage if Lambert could help such a thing.

It's the hardest goodbye Lambert has ever issued, but he can't find it in himself to beg the bard to meet him again. He doesn't think he could ever let Jaskier go should they meet again…

\------

It's the first snow of winter. Jaskier is tucked away in Oxenfurt. He'd struck a deal with the headmaster of the university. His reputation had preceded him and he was offered a spot teaching almost immediately. He worked it out with the headmaster, different from his days as a student, that he would teach in winter and early spring for food and a room. 

He loves it here. It's his crowd, in love with his dramatics and poetics. It was accepted, all his strange behavior. Not all of him and his behavior was loved though, he'd heard the comments and rumors, but everyone played it off as the quirks of a musical genius. He could _exist_ here, without real fear. It wasn't perfect. He’d reigned in his less sane tendencies, but he could feel them simmer under the surface if he looked for it. He’d need the life on the road to help with it again. He'd grown unused to being unbothered and accepted in his decades on the path, next to Geralt.

Oh Geralt. The name still stung on his tongue, in his heart. He could never escape the memories. He'd immortalized them in song, after all. He accepted it for what it was, that day on the mountain. He knew that while Geralt had meant every stupid painful word, it was what Geralt didn't say that made the bard truly leave. It was the lack of respect. The lack of acknowledgement or responsibility. 

Jaskier knows he is not perfect. He knows Geralt is far from perfect. But it's the minimum, the absolute smallest and least time consuming thing, to admit that they are _friends_. After all Jaskier had done, in two decades at Geralt's side. That was terrible. But then to never say anything kind of Jaskier's talents. To say nothing kind at all…

_ It's like ordering a pie and finding it has no filling _

Those talents brought good things Geralt's way. Got him places he'd never otherwise be. _Threw_ opportunities _galore_ at the man's feet.

It wasn't Jaskier who called the law of surprise.

It wasn't Jaskier who fished for a twisted giver of wishes.

It wasn't Jaskier who'd bound a mage to Geralt.

It wasn't Jaskier's fault, not any of it. Geralt had pointed a finger in a direction it had no right to be pointing in. The lack of _respect_ , of such simple _kindness_ , of such things of _great importance_ to Jaskier. 

Jaskier gave twenty years and his heart to a man who didn't give a single significant shit to even hunt him down and apologize. No matter how inadequate the apology, it would have been better than nothing for a whole year.

He hoped Geralt had every single song he'd _masterfully_ crafted out of heartbreak and spite and raw emotion stuck in that head so godsdamned dense they never got out, like a bird stuck in a cage. He hoped his songs rattled around and _chirped_ and _chirped_ and didn't stop. Geralt deserved to observe what a broken-hearted bard could do.

But _still_ , he _loved_ the man.

He sat out in the courtyard to watch the snow fall to the ground and let the chill calm his mind. He thought of happier times. Childhood indulgences, the kind faces he’d met on the road, the ballads he crafted that would surely outlive him, the day he left home all young and dumb yet full of hope...and then he thought of where his life had led him. He thought of where his heart lay.

_ Part of it lay at the bottom of a mountain, stuck to the bottom of Geralt’s boots. _

_ Another, twisted up in a handsome face marked by a story and extreme beauty. _

_ Yet another, in the neck of a needy spit-fire.  _

_ Three pairs of eyes like molten treasure that he loved. _

_ Eyes that looked like and burned him inside out like the sun. _

\------

It's the first heavy snow of winter, the kind that sticks to everything it touches. The wolves of Kaer Morhen were all home within the week. Just days behind one another, they arrived and shed the heaviness of the path for the season. The only monsters here were true beasts. That felt nice. It was _home_ , afterall. Homes take work, but if it is a home and not just a house- _it does not take armor, it does not take guards._

This winter was going to be _different_ somehow. There was a deep tension and disorganization in the air surrounding them all. A longing and _wrongness_ they couldn't shake. There were many fires to keep the place habitable...it still felt lacking somehow, for all of them. _There was a cold that came from inside instead of outside._

For Eskel, it was that even without armor or swords on his back, there was no one to remind him that beauty and worth are more than skin deep. That his upkeep and caring for shouldn't just be a duty. Deep down, Eskel missed being pretty, the scars he held made him feel so poorly. He missed being able to talk and laugh freely. He missed the feelings of carefree happiness- the ones he projected weren’t always real. He missed those hands he found somewhere on the road that treated him like something _precious_ and _breakable_. Like a piece of art, like a loved trinket or _jewel_ of great importance. He _yearned_ to be tended to because if he was honest with himself, he was so tired of being his only friend. Sure, he had the other wolf witchers...but they did not have the skills of poetry, of easy conversation. It could only be a _joke_ when they commented on his beauty and that hurt deeply. They were not the bard he'd stumbled into, the one who could say such _absurd_ things because he felt them true. The bard who gave him everything he needed and left such a deep impression on his heart. The bard he couldn’t wait to see again.

For Lambert, it was tenderness. No one else saw through him like the stupid bard he'd been saved by. People didn't see his anger was him pushing people away before they could attempt violence on him. He figures people will be violent and angry at him no matter what he did or didn't do to deserve it, so why not be angry, be rude, make the _agony_ and _violence_ justified so it hurts less. _It always hurts more when it isn't his fault_. This is why he tried to make it his fault. He _loathed_ to admit it...he wanted that tenderness back. He was happy to be much like a _puppy_ in the presence of the bard. The bard who petted him, who'd held him by the hair and the hips and gave him everything he whined for. _Belonging, caring, tenderness_ , the bard who gave him those and so much more. The bard gave him so much and he felt terrible for wanting, for _needing_ more of the bard’s kind treatment. He felt even angrier when he could feel the phantom sensations of the bard’s _touch_.

For Geralt, oh where to start with Geralt. Such a stupid man with such intelligence. He knew so many things, but he was _young_ for his kind yet, and there were moments it showed. He was too young to know how to balance the path and his own humanity, to realize his own humanity, and it's taken him a lot longer than it should. He's still shit at it, but he knows now, what losing that balance can do. He was missing what he'd had for nearly two decades. _Jaskier_ , he was missing Jaskier in every sense possible. He'd spoiled himself with all of the man's small touches, his songs, his conversation, his skilled hands to bathe and suture him. _He felt like a dog, gotten’ fat on kitchen scraps and tossed in the wild to catch rabbits that ran faster than him_. And then the songs had popped up, they spoke of his _failures_ for once, instead of the pedestal Jaskier had hoisted him on before, and it stung so deeply. It hurt to be hurt, but it hurt a thousand times more to know he had done _immense_ hurt to someone he cared so deeply for. He longed for all those wonderful _gifts_ Jaskier had given him once and would likely never give him again. 

He longed for _forgiveness_ , though he felt he would _never_ deserve it.

For Vesemir it was an ache older than he could remember. These boys, kids he’d call his own any day, he'd seen grown into tough and battered men, _capable_ men. Scars to rival his own, both of the emotional and physical variety. And that's what ached so bad...he taught them to be so capable and gave them a home as best he could, but somewhere along the way...he _forgot_ to allow them, to teach them, to _nurture_ happiness within themselves. He gave them everything a man could ever need but self-love and the secret to happiness. What ached so wholeheartedly within him was his own shortcoming here. He wanted the closest beings he'd ever have to family, _sons_ , to be truly happy. It was the missing piece. He forgot to teach them there was a life outside the path that they could reach anytime they needed. This was his _burden_ and he would not share it. 

\-------

Jaskier had settled in nicely within his first week as a renowned bard turned professor. Apparently, all the students wanted to be in his lectures and preferred his dramatics to the slow drawl of those he worked with. The headmaster bickered about it behind his back, goodnaturedly. He could see the appeal he commanded, he preferred the more scandalous teachers even if he did just fine with the slow drawl of plenty of others. He was more than happy to be the favorite for once.

By now, he'd hunted down a bunch of nice pleasantries for his room. He had smaller tapestries of beautiful people in all manner of situations all over the walls. A fine wooden desk with several colors of inks sat atop next to blank pieces of paper and empty and half-full journals. Filled out papers and books sat in the drawers, holding all the ramblings of his madness and lucidity alike. It was _hard_ work being a poet and a bard, to know so many _truths_ of the human condition. That knowledge came at the price of never looking at anything as simple and that price would always weigh _heavy_ on his shoulders. 

It weighs heavy on him now, to know so many things. His skin only shows his age in scars and laugh lines, it betrays his true age. He supposes, to be this _knowledgeable_ he would really have to be well into his years. He had suspicion that somewhere in his blood, he wasn't fully human to be so _old_ and not look it, but he wouldn't ask anyone who could tell him so. He'd rather not face the idea of a long nor a short life. He had gotten his sexual promiscuity from somewhere up his bloodline and had no idea how human or inhuman his blood really was.

He's sitting somewhere in the school’s dining hall at an odd hour, pondering such things, when they approach him. A woman and a man. They sit across from him with a reserved caution, a tension in their faces that their smiles cannot hide from someone so _adept_ at reading people. He plays his part, the stupid bard, the clueless professor now- he says nothing to them at all.

"Hello professor. We work around here...and we had a few questions for you? About you and where you've been?" Seems harmless, but he’s too perceptive to miss the cautious phrasing.

"Well, go ahead and ask! I'll tell you if I wish not to answer, so please! Go on!."

"I don’t intend to be rude, but where did you obtain such scars? The ones on your face?"  They speak like they _know_ he has more on his skin and it's a struck chord that tells him more than they think.

"Bandits. They attacked where I was camped."

"What happened to them?"

"I didn't stay to find out, something says that wouldn't go well. Not known for hospitality!"

_ And that's not a lie, not really. He never stayed to find out what became of the bodies or what would have happened if he was found to be the only breathing body. _

She has the _audacity_ to laugh at that like it doesn’t hold _trauma_ , and he plays along.

"You've been close to the frontlines of that terrible war...been to the court of Cintra on invitation by princess Pavetta and after her death...before it fell..?"

He would reveal _nothing_ or so help him gods. He would never jeopardize the child surprise he'd stopped in to care for and look after. Because care for her he did, Pavetta and him had been _friends_ , Geralt and him were friends, and so he felt his own form of _duty_ to look after the child.

"I've been to the Cintran court, as well as many others, several times."

"Yes, I'd imagine a bard so renounced would. How about the Nilfgaardian court?"

What a _somber_ chord that was.

"I've been to that one less often and only when they gave decent coin and I was _starving_. _I don't favor them."_

"Professor, how would you like to join the war effort?"

Oh, he has an idea of where these questions come from now. He'd heard rumors of random faces that pop in and out of the school from all manner of places around the continent. He'd put it together and dismissed it all the same because he figured it wouldn't be something to involve himself in.

"Spies? What would spies want with little and humble me?"

He let go of the helpless bard and clueless professor act to _smile_ with all his dark energy he’d bottled up.

The faces across from him no longer looked confident. They looked scared, _like kids who'd gone to the lake for shells and gotten bodies._

"We think that sometimes those who slip through the cracks naturally may have it easier to smuggle information and themselves out. Surely, you've noticed everyone tells the bards and the whores of the world just about anything after some alcohol or hands. We've been told you've gotten into the trickiest courts and beds…"

"That's great and all, but beyond it being for the greater good, why would I toss my life at the feet of warring court nobility? Much as I wish for the _demise_ of Nilfgaard. I've done a great many things in my years, why add secret war-hero to the list?"

"Because we know you'll travel once spring settles and come back with the cold winter anyway. We don't want you to do anything other than tell us the attitudes of courts across the continent. No assassination, no thievery, just reporting on how people feel. We'll teach you things, hone skills to make you even more capable!"

He wasn't _always_ a smart man.

"Okay. But I do it on my time, I have a room here always. I want my fill of travel, thus I won’t return in between the seasons- only in winter will I come back. I back out at any time and it's honored. You take care of me and I will do the same for you."

"Yes, yes okay. We will find you tomorrow, after your classes to teach you the essentials."

And that's how Jaskier became a spy for the Northern alliance.

\-------

It's been a few days since the arrival of everyone at Kaer Morhen and tensions have never been higher. They were all _missing something_ and in that void was a cold _detached_ ache and that led to frustration across the board. A castle filled with frustrated witchers wasn't much fun for any of them. Vesemir could smell it in the air around his boys, felt the way they fed off each other's frustration. There was a sour note to every interaction and corridor. There was going to be a serious fight soon, one he couldn't prevent.

He gave them copious chores and training so that when the day came they at least wouldn't _kill_ one another.

He was proved right a few days later.

It was lunch for the day and there was only one more chore for the day. Cleaning the stables where four horses would live for the whole season. It would be in need of another clean every week, but the first clean was the worst. Chores rotated, it shouldn't even be an argument, but it wasn't really about the chores- no, it was general frustration that boiled up and was pushing its way out. In place of understanding the feelings within, there was an artificial bitterness. 

"Have fun with the stables, _Lambert_! Don't forget to slip in the _shit_ at least once!" It was a mean jest, Eskel knew as much, it was the whole reason he’d said it.

"If you want to watch, make sure you're close enough I can _toss the shovel_ towards you."

Vesemir can see this is headed down a bad path, but who is he to sort the issues of these men unless it becomes too far out of hand. Geralt accepts that it’s not his place to add input.

"And ruin my bath?! Never."

"Too bad your bath still leaves you looking like a _wild mutt_." It was a dig meant to hurt more than to joke. Lambert knew it'd make Eskel rise to the bait.

Eskel leaped the table and got into his face, poked at his chest, backed him against the counter.

"You're always so _fucking_ rude. Are you _just jealous_ there's nothing so noteworthy about you, that _you’re ugly under all your scars too_?! Hmm."

And that stings because Lambert knows that of all the sons, of all the people he's come across, he's never been important or memorable to any of them. He thought they had an unspoken agreement to never point it out because it always ended poorly when they did. That frustration in his gut has boiled into authentic hurt and anger now. He can't take the poking, the _violent_ touch he gets from so many others and now from a man he'd call family.

He swings with a yell before his brain stops him. He doesn't know what he's doing or saying. He's just angry. He's hurt. It’s a blacked out blur.

Eskel doesn't know when it happened but he can see the anger, the animalistic _rage_ inside of Lambert’s eyes. _And it hurts_ more than any punch or kick Lambert manages to slip through his blocks. _He did that. He'd hurt Lambert_ like that in his childish outburst. He doesn't punch or kick, just blocks the serious hits and absorbs the smaller ones- punishment for what he'd done. He'd let the bruises remind him he was a shit brother, a garbage person who didn't deserve sweetness.

He listens to what Lambert’s yelling expecting insults, but getting so much worse and _it breaks him_ on another level. Lambert's screaming about how unimportant he thinks himself, how nothing he could ever do would make a difference. How terrible the world has been to him.

Lambert’s out of anger soon enough. 

But it's different than any fight they've ever had. There was no good or simple competitive nature to it. It wasn’t physical exhaustion or measured paces that’d stopped them. It had been the weight of what happened and the adrenaline crash. They'd each crossed a line and let frustration get the better of them, striking for each other’s _weaknesses_ to cover their own. There was a sadness in the wake of the anger. There are _silent_ tears haunting both of them.

Eskel can't take it. He needs to say sorry, but words fail him at this moment. There's _too much distance_ between them and he craves touch and forgiveness. He moves to hug Lambert and is met with a flinch and a weak block, and oh what it feels like to have _betrayed_ trust and _reap the consequence_. He pushes through to hug Lambert anyway and only when Lambert is wrapped in his arms do words return to his lips.

" _I didn't mean any of that, I didn't_. This year has been tough and I find I've been unhappy more often than usual…"

"I didn't mean it either, Eskel. It's been quite the year for me too... _I nearly died_ of my own stupidity."

Lambert hugs back and gives a single nuzzle to Eskel’s neck.

"You've always been _so important to me, Lambert_. I pushed you away because sometimes it hurts too much to care, not because of any fault of yours... _I'd do anything for you, give you anything you needed_ …"

"I call you ugly because even with scars you're far prettier than I, far prettier than a witcher has need for being. _I call you unattractive because I find you the opposite…_ "

It's more than enough apology. _It's admission_ they care for one another, that they could ask anything of the other.

They stay wrapped in each other's arms for a long while.

Geralt and Vesemir say nothing of what's just happened. It feels wrong to interrupt. None of them will comment if the stable is clean or not until tomorrow. _Sometimes duty could wait_.

Geralt feels...strange watching his fellow wolves work things out. It wasn't the lack of privacy, he just wondered when they'd become such emotionally competent men. _Where had they learned these skills and where had he forgotten to_? Is this what it was, to move past things effectively? He wonders...why hadn't Jaskier yelled back at him and thrown rocks and punches at him until he apologized on that mountain. It dawns on him, _he had been the one throwing the punches and Jaskier had been the one blocking. Jaskier was a man of words and surely his words had done more than any physical beating could have._ Jaskier didn’t work in the same way he did, and thus it took Geralt until now to realize _he’d done the worst he possibly could have to the bard less he killed the poor man._

He can deny no longer, _everything that's gone wrong in his life is through his own fault._ His worst mistake was not expressing his apologies. The second he could, once his child surprise was safely tucked away, he'd hunt down Jaskier and scream his apologies at the man's feet. _He'd fix this or die trying. He owed Jaskier as much._

Vesemir is just glad his boys were moving forward from frustration, it’d be fine to train them with real swords without worry now. He eats the last slice of tonight's ham before taking his leave, happier than before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things do not generally go well for our mouthy bard or spies, so the combination of both is probably headed in a tragic direction. Again, if you cannot handle (and it is perfectly alright to be unable to handle such things) talks and descriptions of things that are graphic or sick, please take care of yourself and stop reading while things are still happy.


	8. Start Of A New Era

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's a winter update and it's starting to kick up the plot a little. Starting to lay down some plot points to continue off of to progress the story. Now I'm sure everyone has noticed- I'm not a world builder. I'm more of a poet that's been reading fanfic for a long time and decided I wanted to give voice to the personal relationships between the characters I've come to love. So that's the focus here, for now, but I can't promise that it's going to be all sunshine and lollipops.
> 
> Now, try to be nice because I write this only when the mood strikes and thus it has no arching plot so much as moments I've imagined and just had to connect in writing. I wing it every time!  
> ( I also write it on my phone in a google doc n copy paste it. I'm doing my best to keep updating even though I'm trying to sort out college stuff and balance the heavy times right now. )

Teaching gave him the same thrill it always did, left him happy down to his bones. A fresh pep to his step, he started down the halls towards his room. He had plans to write a new song, something about how knowledge was the basis of all power and should be the basis for respect. It was only one hallway away that he felt eyes on the back of his head. The gaze felt like an invisible hand had grabbed on to the back of his neck. He did his best to give no reaction before slipping around the nearest corner to see who might follow.

He stood away from the wall in a ready stance with bent knees. If someone wanted to fight him, he’d be sure to hit harder. But no fight came when he saw who turned the corner. It was the woman from yesterday, the spymaster. 

“No fight to be had, Professor. I’m here to escort you to discuss the matters agreed to yesterday.”

She sounded amused as she walked past Jaskier, expecting him to follow. Follow, he did.

“You’re in for a _treat_ if you’re prone to the magics, Professor! If not, well, you’ll be limited to regular spy level stuff. The basics if you will.”

“How exactly does one find out if they’re prone to magic? I’ve never heard such phrasing- phrasing that suggests I could be magically inclined and not know of it.”

“You make me laugh. A man who knows so much of the world and so little of it’s secrets at the same time. It’s to do with _blood_ and some heart, Professor. You may not be so inclined as a mage whose born with the ability outright, but that doesn’t mean you should be unable to do parlor tricks if you’ve got enough drops of ancient blood sloshing about inside you and the heart to awaken them.”

“Mm, well. I hope you don’t plan to have me fill in the gaps. My bloodline is a muddied mystery to even myself. Mother and grandmother _dearest_ did not stay within the nobility, nobody really did.”

“Let’s hope to draw something within you out of hiding then. A fair warning, it’s not a test done with ink and paper. It’s a potion, created by a mage, meant to bring _anything_ magically enabled in you to the surface- where it’ll stay...if you worry about things being... _permanent_ , you don’t have to do it. We would like you to though.”

She gave a glance that suggested it was only being asked out of preferred, but _unnecessary_ cooperation.

“Well, I can’t say I’ve never been curious about it...does it hurt much?”

“Depends on how human you really are and how much you consume of the potion... _how human you stay._ I’ve seen people sprout wings and tails, those seem to hurt the most, but those were also the people with the audacity to lick every drop from the bottle. Some also had blood so mixed they weren't any one thing.”

“Ah, _lovely_. Let’s hope I’m not too unlucky this time around.”

“First, we will teach you regular skills, and only if you can do those will we subject you to more. This potion...you need to be strong for it, and for spywork. We’d rather not _waste_.”

He knows what is meant by ‘waste’ but he’d rather not focus on that.

“Prepare then to be amazed by my worldly skills, my lady!”

Jaskier is no stranger to hardships and some swordplay. Hell, he doesn’t think he could live without them.

He enjoyed them both, lest life get the better of him.

He could and would endure, he was too stubborn to do anything else.

Still, he is no fool. He would never trust them with all he knows so easily. So as they run him through swordplay and lessons in stealth and close combat, and adaptive combat, he's rather bored. He only shows just how good he is at the first thaw of spring. Just before they decide he's worthy to drink that less than delicate revealing potion.

He wonders what his witchers would think, if he could ever live up to their standards of a human opponent.

Alas, he isn't sure he'll see his witchers again before being stripped of his humanity. There's a worry in him...that maybe he wouldn't be human enough for his witchers. That maybe...he'd just end up a severed head serving as a footnote in their biographies no one would write or read.

\-------

Eskel was just sitting in his room, soaking away his bruises from his and Lambert’s little scuffle in the bath, thinking too many thoughts like he always did come winter. It was the only time he could really afford to be so... _lost_ in his own head. His thoughts felt like a haunting, a specter that never left the shadows and never really strayed from his mind. They glided across his skin, those nimble fingers belonging to a bard he _missed_. The memory of people who would grace him with their presence, and those who wouldn't for one reason _or another_. The claws and fangs of passed hunts made scars ache all along his body. He felt... _unresolved, cold_ in every extremity. The eyes that stared back at him from the water’s surface felt like those of a beaten dog, his reflection felt like that of a stranger. They truly looked as haunted as he felt.

He would never ask anyone to love him...especially not when he couldn’t recognize his own reflection. Not while he was in this way, the way where suddenly _everything_ made him feel like a wild animal too hurt and needy to care about others. His mind told him he was an unlovable monster, far too ugly, far too used to being alone, to ever be worthy company or provided soft affections. His mind told him this was fact and he had no arguments that could hope to convince his mind otherwise, not right now. He wouldn't put that burden on his fellow wolves and he would never leave it on paper to be found later. All his feelings were too much right now and they would always be too much.

He just wants to curl up in his little corner and forget it all, forget everything and let unconsciousness hold tightly to him, just for a few hours. Just until everything else quiets down inside his head. Until he no longer wanted to sob his feelings away or rip his room to shreds. He’s decided now would be a good time to meditate. It would help him clear his head, his heart.

He hopped out of the bath and had just gotten loose pants on just in time for a knock on his door.

"Who is it?"

It comes out a little more angry than intended.

He's not sure he can deal with company right now, but he wouldn't ever deny his fellow wolves an answer.

"It's me...it's Lambert. I need to talk to you."

Eskel considered turning him away...but Lambert sounded... _small_. He sounded...in need.

"Come in."

The door opens with a small creak and Lambert slowly pads his way into the room. Eskel would have sent him away if that anger was towards him. He's holding his arms around himself at his hips, hugging himself. Lambert won't lift his gaze from the floor beneath his feet because all it would take for him to bolt all the way to the courtyard is one second of eye contact. He feels like if he says what he wants to, he'll choke on the words and just end up yelling more things he doesn't mean. In his anxieties, he closes the door because it feels less like something could drag him away down the stone corridor by the ankles, definitely not because it stopped him from running.

"Eskel...I'm not, _good_ , at this."

He wants to say he's not good at feeling, but he knows the truth is he feels _so much_ and just doesn't know how to show it. He wants to show Eskel his love, his idolization, but words that are not curses don't know their way out of his lips.

"Good at what, Lambert?...Are you alright?"

"Can I...can I just touch you for awhile?"

Lambert knows it sounds weird, that it may cross a line because Eskel never really commented on his admission from after their fight. He wants to run, hide away in a different part of the keep until the snow stops falling. He's sure Eskel is going to punch him this time around.

"Unusual...but I'll give it a go."

And then Eskel is sitting on the edge of the bed and staring at him expectantly, he feels like running would make him a coward now. He wanted this, but what exactly is this? What did he want, what did he expect? 

Lambert slowly makes his way there, waiting for laughter or a wayward punch. When he reaches Eskel and stands in between his knees nothing happens and that's the confusing part, he doesn't remember this being an option before tonight. It feels like he has only one chance, so he's made up his mind to not waste it. He runs his hands through Eskel's hair, nice and slow, combing through the wet locks of hair that'd stuck to the skin beneath it. He's calmer now, feeling that nothings gone wrong, but rather that something has gone _absolutely right_ for once in his life. It feels right to touch someone he cares so much for with this gentleness. He glides his fingers across Eskel's face, across his cheeks and jaw. His nails ever so lightly travel down Eskel's neck and collarbones before moving down his arms. It's intoxicating, the warmth beneath his hands- it feels so good he isn't sure it's real. Then, because he feels lighter and bolder now, he lowers himself to his knees between Eskel's legs. He rubs the side of his face into Eskel's thighs and squeezes at Eskel's hips. It's like the world outside the room doesn't exist, like there's no burdens on his shoulders or heaviness in his heart.

Lambert feels settled, like this is where he should have been all along. It's not that Lambert and Eskel haven't played around before, but this feels different. It has a meaning this time. Eskel's silence was beginning to fray Lambert’s nerves, he made to get off the floor and leave. Eskel opened his eyes at the movement, saw how flighty and self-conscious Lambert was acting, but he'd missed touch he realized. He wasn't letting it leave again so soon. Lambert may have been the one to ask for it, but he needed it too. That was the missing piece. Eskel wouldn't let Lambert leave, not like this. The second Lambert had both feet on the ground, Eskel wrapped his arms around Lambert’s waist and pulled him close to nuzzle into the soft belly trapped in his arms.

" _Stay...please_. I think I like this...like it a lot…"

Eskel opened his eyes as he said it, pulled back to watch Lambert’s reaction. He saw the way Lambert’s pupils got wide and black out most of the gold, now hidden away. It made him take in a deep breath of anticipation, the wonders of what the night might become making his chest feel heavy. It's because of this deep breath that he can smell Lambert’s desire and affection. Things may be different this time, but there's comfort to be had in familiar actions like sex. It's like something breaks away from him then, like he has no guards up. The walls around his heart and head have crumbled and he can feel the exact moment it happens because it leaves his pupils just as big as Lambert’s. It leaves his skin _buzzing_ with the need to be felt, to feel.

Lambert can't handle it when Eskel's pupils open up, wider than he thinks he's ever seen in their time knowing one another. It leaves his belly heavy and hot with the feeling of being wanted. He feels drunk on it, on the mutual desire between them. He needed to feel more, _immediately_. It felt like he was falling through a hole in the floor, like the distance between him and Eskel was the cause of this instability. He was growing more and more desperate to feel all of Eskel. The touch of his hands soon weren't enough. Lambert was sloppily crawling into Eskel's lap with the hopes to press them together, to be as close as possible. He let his need take over and wound up biting and licking at Eskel's throat and shoulders.

Eskel felt like a breathless mess, giving off small huffs of air and throaty sighs. Lambert bit into the meat of his shoulder with real force and that's when things took a turn. Eskel's brain didn't even think for a second before his hips bucked up into Lambert so hard he'd have flung Lambert on the floor had he not clamped his hands down on Lambert’s hips. The deep moan stolen from his gut sounded like a growl. 

And sure, they're both needy, but is this what they wanted? Did they want this for the sake of it in itself?

Or was this some apology because all they knew was physical?

"Lambert, be honest with me...do you actually want to fuck? Or do you just feel bad about earlier?"

"I do want it...but maybe not like before...I want it to mean, _more_. I want it because it's _you_ , not just because you're a warm body…"

And oh,

Lambert’s really serious about finding him attractive…

He's not sure if he can believe it, but for once it feels like Lambert means it. Because Eskel knows that Lambert seeking him out, swallowing a little bit of pride to admit his needs, trusting Eskel to touch him everywhere after everything, is the biggest confession that Lambert has ever issued.

And oh,

He thinks he might be able to make a confession of his own.

"Lambert...you were never just a warm body to me...you've always been part of my definition of home, even when you're an ass. I wouldn't change you for the world, except to give you some _happiness_ …"

There's no urgency in them anymore. They remain pressed together and petting over each other and leaving soft kisses where they can reach. It's calm. It fills the void just enough that it doesn't feel like a gaping wound that wouldn't stop bleeding.

Eskel strips Lambert down for bed and doesn't dare let go until they have to.

It becomes a routine that at least once a week, if not most of the week, Lambert shares Eskel's bed. Nobody dares comment on how they smell more and more entangled as the weeks drag on or pokes fun at it.

The wolves very rarely stank of true happiness and it was not something to be willingly ruined or ended.

Geralt can't help but think of Jaskier every single _stupid_ time he has to smell his fellow wolves shared smell or every time certain sounds bounce off the walls of the empty keep. He wonders how those two did it, how they made sense of their feelings long enough to apologize to one another and then become even closer after it. He can't imagine an apology _good enough_ for Jaskier. He doesn't think the words exist, let alone in his vocalization. It starts to weigh on him, how seemingly everyone is happy and he is not.

Geralt can see how proud Vesemir is of the other two, how the eldest wolf is happy to see the others happy. His sadness feels like a burden he shouldn't let the others see because it might ruin the happy balance they've all found. Geralt pretends to be happy, does whatever the others ask of him, whatever needs to be done during the day. Come night, he slips off to the stables to confess all his thoughts to his beloved horse. Roach is always happy to see him and be tended to, but lately it feels like he can't even please his horse.

She'd been spoiled on sugar cubes for two decades and it wasn't by him and he knew it every time she bit at his pockets.

It feels like the world has no room for Geralt, like he's just a pawn on the board, to be tossed around as destiny commands. It hurts to his very bones and that is how he finds himself out of words with only tears to give to Roach about halfway through winter. 

He's silently crying as he rests his forehead on Roach when the stable door opens. His entire body tenses. Witchers don't cry, he's not supposed to cry, nobody should see him like this. 

"Geralt! Slipping off to mess with your mare? Never took you for the type! Or do you have booze hidden here somewhere? Must have a good reason to slink off every night."

And of all the people to interrupt his brooding and moodiness, it just fucking _had_ to be _Lambert_ \- the prick. The one person who wouldn't let this go.

" _Piss off_ , wolf. I'm just out here to think."

"Think about what exactly? Didn't know you thought about anything, 'cept maybe _sorceresses_!"

And he doesn't know what happens, but he just can't take a joke right now. He doesn't resort to anger like he normally did, not even irritation. No. Geralt just starts _bawling_ against Roach. He's fucking had it up to here, he's allowed a good sob in his book. He just can't stand to do anything but pity himself, the fool he really is.

"Ah, _fuck_ , shit. Okay, Geralt- what's wrong? I didn't mean to hurt you so bad…did she leave you or something?"

Lambert only hesitates for a brief second before deciding, fuck it, and hugging Geralt from behind. It feels weird as all hell to try to hold Geralt like that, but in his defense Roach made any other angle an impossibility.

"What...what are you doing?"

And shit, Geralt sounds broken. Lambert broke him somehow.

"Trying to get you to _shut up_!"

_Classic_ Lambert. He'd expected the comment to go poorly, but it's a decent surprise when Geralt answers with a small chuckle. And that's how Lambert gets to know what has been bothering Geralt so much, those feelings of building inadequacy. There inside his gut, guilt is born, because Lambert didn't even notice Geralt's pain. Which looking back, it would have been easy to spot. All the early mornings and late nights, the desire to be the drunkest when they drank, the overbearing silence and quick anger, being too aggressive at training. Geralt hadn't even hugged him or Eskel.

But where had it all come from?

"Geralt...I think us wolves need to have a talk. Get to the bottom of where this all has come from. Track down the lair, like any monster…"

"Mmm, no Vesemir. Old wolf is too much of a father to us for this, I'd really disappoint him...I can't let him see- won't."

"If you say so, old fucker isn't exactly my favorite. Tonight, after he slinks off to whatever corner he'll probably die in, me and Eskel will sit down with you. And we'll... _talk_?"

"Mm, _okay_."

Lambert isn't dumb so much as he is prone to anger, he knows Geralt needs space to gather up all those wayward thoughts. So, he takes his leave after giving Geralt a pat on the shoulder and goes to explain stuff to Eskel.

Eskel is rather predictable during the winter. Aside from the routine training and meals, the cunning man he is, always 'hides' away to read books. Lambert, personally hates reading beyond necessity. Books are lame, always about the same concepts of broken love or petty and unfounded beliefs of hatred. Sometimes the pursuit of knowledge wasn't about knowing more and was about confirming broken ideals- so he avoided the pieces of shit that humans wrote. But he knew Eskel ate that shit up and claimed it was _entertaining_.

Today's hideaway was in one of the broken storage rooms in the front courtyard. Lambert doesn't rush his approach, he sorta just wants to stare at Eskel for a second. The sunlight always looks amazing in that shaggy hair…

"What do you need, Lambert? Should know you can't really get the drop on a witcher."

"... _not really sneaking so much as_ \- We gotta talk."

Lambert resents how easy it's become to show off his vulnerabilities and thoughts with Eskel, hell, he was about to confess to staring and blushing! He's too busy changing the topic to complain that he could, in fact, get the drop on the other wolves if he tried hard enough.

Eskel's closed his book by now, having suspected Lambert of wanting to drag him off. But talk? Talk about what? Was what they had going not something Lambert wanted anymore? He thought everything was going okay…

"Get out of your head. S' not about you or us, _well_ \- not like that. It's Geralt. Dumbass was crying in the stable. Found him earlier all but giving Roach a bath with tears."

"And you left him there? Did you smell any blood?"

"Eskel, breathe. No blood, I- I even hugged him and got him to fess up a little. He's not doing great, but...I don't think it's the empty hallways this year. It was a shit year for all of us and I just sorta realized we never included Geralt so far, and we also don't know why his year was rubbish. We're gonna talk to him tonight- but only after Vesemir _fucks off_ for the night- Geralt's request."

And Eskel's surprised. Lambert’s the _least_ responsible one and yet he's set all this up. This maturity...he likes it, just a little. He doesn't want Lambert’s childish spark to die out, never, but it's good to see he can pull it together too when needed.

Maybe tonight will be the start of a better wolf pack, a new era for them. One where things are more easily shared and things _hurt_ less. 


	9. And The Walls Come Tumbling Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt fesses up to long term secrets to Lambert and Eskel with zero grace. It's It's a mess of hurt n comfort. I'll fix it for real later, but if I want my version of these characters to grow, then I kinda gotta...cut into them a little ya know?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So! I've been in a slump lately. Life is just very filled with pressure and loneliness for me lately. So this chapter took a little longer than I'd have liked to come out- BUT I promise I'm not done with this fic!! The people who've left such beautiful and wonderful comments have kept me inspired! So please, if it's not too much trouble, a comment gives me so much serotonin! Write about stuff you wanna see in this fic the stuff you liked or the stuff you disliked, I read every single comment even if I don't reply!! I love y'all and thank you for your time!

The sun has just gone down, leaving the mountains in a dark indigo layer of cold. It always felt like the stones of the floors were made of ice with the way they sucked the heat from wandering feet. Geralt sits in his room staring into the fire that cracks with a gentle snap every so often. Dinner will be soon, but honestly, he doesn't want to go. After dinner he's got that talk with Lambert and Eskel and it might just feel better to jump off the walls and throw himself down the cliffside to his death. He doesn't want to confront his emotions.

_ I don't want them to know _ .

It feels like too big an ache to admit that he'd messed up with the wishes, and the child surprise, and the bard. These are his failures. How does one even start to voice such deep and complex emotions? He couldn't even give voice to the simple ones. Geralt knows it's the guilt that's making him so...unsettled, but he just can't figure out how to start. It's worrisome. What are the others going to think of him? Surely, they'd see him as he was,  _ a weak soul who couldn't help but fall apart _ .

There's a knock on the door. It feels like the buzzing silence in the air is split with thunder. Somewhere inside, Geralt knows things just won't be the same after tonight. The fear of abandonment starts nipping at his stomach with sharp little needles of teeth.

"Geralt, you're going to miss dinner if you hide any longer! Get yourself downstairs. Lambert’s gonna get his dirty paws on your plate!" It's Eskel, come to summon him for dinner.

_ Mmmm, best get up _ .  _ Can't hide forever...doesn't ever work. I've hidden things long enough and what good has it done. _

Sure enough, Lambert had managed to snatch nearly half of his dinner. He was late though, so he supposes it's more his fault for losing track of time. He's not really sure he could eat a whole plate with his inner turmoil anyway. They all finish eating in a tense silence. Everyone is tense and the room feels dark even with a blazing fire not even a table-length away. Geralt knows his attitude is what's sinking the mood like a ship in unfriendly waters, but the growing nerves just won't leave him. It feels like he's eaten a bunch of maggots and they just won't stop festering. The feeling squirms within him and it feels like his dinner is trying to crawl back up his throat.

Vesemir isn't blind, though he is old. It's easy to see that his boys are tense and brooding in their own ways, still unable to hide from his knowing eyes after all this time. Lambert stress eats every little scrap he can get his hands on with fervor. Geralt becomes a dark rain cloud that sucks the warmth out of the room and leaves ice wherever his gaze lands. Eskel, his sweetest son by several measures, hides behind a thick wall comprised of a blank face and does only what he needs to and nothing more. It hurts to see the easy nature of his boys absent when it's only been a few years in the making. Vesemir misses the laughter and calm touches that had been filling the keep at dinner. He'd seen that Geralt was having a tough time this year, but he'd figured that if his boys needed help they would simply ask. Perhaps...he'd been wrong. 

_ Should give them the room, let them knock each other back into shape. _

He takes his leave with a nod to their general direction and a bidding of,

"Goodnight boys."

The calm that'd false calm that'd fallen over Geralt while Vesemir was in the room leaves with the eldest wolf. The remaining wolves were free to tear into him with questions and their comments. Eskel would start on the gentle side and Lambert would be- well- Lambert. The nerves were squirming worse and worse. It felt like everything was out to get him. Every shadow was nipping at the edges of his paranoia. He was a bowstring pulled taught and either he was to be fired and fine or he was to snap under the pressure.

"Well, let's just jump into it. Geralt, what the hell is wrong with you?"  _ Classic Lambert. _

"Lambert, some respect," Eskel's deep voice cut in, "talk to us Geralt. Whatever it is, we've got your back."

_ How to start, how to handle this delicately. _

"I messed with bad magic and I have a child of surprise."

_ Fuck, that's not how it should have gone. _

Snap it was.

Eskel looks horrified and Lambert looks so angry. He's really done it this time, hasn't he. His gut tells him to bolt for it, maybe he should start running right about now…but he'd run long enough. These were his mistakes and if this is how they caught up, like dogs biting at his heels, he would take the bites. He'd earned them by running and then by never sharing them when they'd first happened. It was a hell of his own crafting, really.

"What magic Geralt? What  _ idiot _ move did you make?"

At least Eskel didn’t seem mad...yet.

"Mm, used a djin wish...maybe accidentally linked my destiny to...a sorceress with a mean streak."

"A djin? A sorceress? Your destiny? Geralt you -l. You know- you knew that those sorts of things should be left alone...why? Why'd you do that?"

_ Eskel sounds heartbroken- disbelief in every word. _

" **_Fuck that_ ** , that's his future he's fucking up on his own. A child of surprise, Geralt? Are you fucking joking? You saw several times why that's the worst fucking idea ever! Are you trying to shit on everything we've had, everything we've been through? And ruin some kid's whole fucking life? Where are they Geralt?  **_Where's the kid_ ** ?"

_ Lambert’s going to kill me. Maybe I ought to let him. _

"About that…it was a few years back. The kid is royalty. Heir to Cintra's throne. I never collected her…got banned from Cintra. I thought destiny was nothing and she'd be better off away from the life of the Path."

"You'd better sleep with one eye open, Geralt. If destiny doesn't hurt you, I will. What the fuck have you done…"

Lambert storms out of the room and the door to the kitchen shatters against the stone wall, the splinters raining down. The sour smells of betrayal and hurt trails behind Lambert.

_ Don't cry. Don't cry. Don't cry. _

Eskel had his eyes locked onto the table. His eyes looked so cold and hollow, unhappiness oozing in his body language and in the smell radiating off him. 

_ It's all over. I'll never be welcome back. They hate me... _

"What are you planning to do about it, Geralt?...How are you going to break the tie? When are you getting the child? -You have to collect her, Geralt. I know all too well what happens when you don't…

Geralt, I'm not mad so much as I am in disbelief. I thought I'd known you better than this is all. You know being a child surprise ruined Lambert’s life, his words. Calling on the law earned me my face.

I'll ask only  _ once _ more,  **_why_ ** Geralt,  **_why_ ** did you do all this?"

_ I don't know anymore. _

"The...the child was a stupid moment. I was trying to flee the royal court after a crazy party that had turned into a fight. It just slipped out of my mouth, I don't know what I thought. It was a palace, maybe I would have gotten a sword or something from the Lioness if princess Pavetta hadn't been pregnant. She didn't even look it. I  **_knew_ ** that I had made a big mistake the second I'd said it."

Eskel nodded in resignation.

Geralt silently sobbed in desolation.

He could feel the love and respect like a smothered flame as it died around him, poisoned by his own choices.

"And the djin?"

"Another stupid moment. I had been unable to sleep for an entire week after only a small nap. I thought maybe...maybe I could wish for a good rest. And yes, I know the wish would have cheated me, but I was too tired to think about that. The first wish accidentally hurt...a friend. The sorceress fixed what the djin did to him. Second wish killed someone, accident, after I woke up in jail after having been used by the sorceress. And the third...I think I just wanted someone who- I don't know. She was trying to capture the djin and she was dying and I just needed the djin to leave without killing her. So, I tied our destinies together somehow."

Eskel let a heavy sigh out and turned his head toward the ceiling, as if he were looking to the heavens through the material plane.

_ I've lost them both, haven't I?  _

Geralt can't help it any longer and tears slip down his cheeks. He can feel the fingers of abandonment as they rip at his resolve. It feels the same as it did when he'd first arrived at Kaer Morhen. He was alone, abandoned, given up. The self doubt and feelings of worthlessness he'd spent years trying to push aside rose back up inside him.

"You've got to get the child. First thing once winter breaks. There's a war on and a royal child surprise that's not collected reeks of a poor turn of events. Swear it to me, that you'll do this, and I'll put it behind me as best I can."

"I  **_swear_ ** it, Eskel, I do. I've been a coward...afraid."

_ Please don't leave me behind. _

_ Please, I can't be completely alone again... _

"Very well. You're on your own when it comes to Lambert. I won't be in the middle of this one."

"Of course not…"

Eskel gets up and walks to the door before giving pause. He spares a glace over his shoulder at Geralt. It hurts so much, what Geralt's done and unless this is fixed, even if this can be fixed, Eskel isn't sure if he has it in him to love Geralt again. Eskel had loved Geralt and no one else a long time ago and when Geralt found out the stubborn idiot immediately put so much distance between them...they'd never been the same then, and he has a feeling they will never be the same after this either. He'd found a way to be okay with loving Geralt only as much as Geralt would allow. But he had still wanted more and more- maybe this was just the way Fate was reminding him he couldn't even have that small shred of something more. 

Eskel turns back and takes Geralt's face between his hands. He can feel the pure despair in Geralt's gaze, can smell it like rotting meat and spoiled milk in the air. He wants to take a little risk...show good intentions. Or maybe, somewhere down the line, this would be looked back on as a goodbye kiss. Eskel leaves after leaving a lingering kiss to Geralt's forehead. He can't help but hope that maybe, finally, after all this Geralt will just realize it's okay to care about others...about him.

Geralt sits with silent tears painting his face, the sobs shaking his body. He refuses to let a sound out. It dawns on him then...he didn't even admit to hurting the only man outside of the keep he'd ever admit having feelings for.

And that makes it all hurt worse, because he'd pushed away everyone who'd ever gave him the time of day.

Every

Single 

One.

\------

After Eskel leaves Geralt in the kitchen, he goes straight to his room. His mind was buzzing again, much worse than it has in weeks. It's bad enough that he can confidently say it hasn't been this bad since the first time Geralt had put distance between them. 

His feet feel heavy and he can't focus to save his life right now. The door closes behind him and it takes so much energy to lift his arms. He doesn't remember how he got here or how, moments later, he ends up meditating in nothing but his pants with his back to the fire.

He returns to his senses when his door opens and very light footfalls enter the room. And he's not ready to feel the hurt and betrayal all over again, not yet. He ignores the footsteps because he thinks them to belong to Geralt, who else would be so timid at this time? But the footfalls don't belong to Geralt. They belong to Lambert. 

"Eskel? I know you heard me come in...just keep ignoring me if you want me to go. I know you don't always like to talk...so, if there's anything you need...I'd-uh- I'd maybe be willing to help.."

Lambert isn't one to be shy or offer help without first being asked. It makes Eskel feel bad...he's the one who has been taking care of Lambert for most of the winter by now. He knows, Lambert probably just needs reassurance and care but...Lambert is right, he can't bring himself to speak yet, but he also doesn't want Lambert to leave.

Eskel breaks the meditation completely to find that Lambert was closer than originally thought. Lambert is kneeling too, putting them at eye level to one another. Eskel still can't focus very well, but it's a more welcome derailed focus. He stares at every crack and feature of Lambert’s face. The youngest wolf really was handsome by all counts. Eskel's lost of the flecks of Lambert’s irises when Lambert reaches out to push some hair behind Eskel's ear. 

Eskel may not want to talk, but that's fine because Lambert has learned the lesson that actions count just as much. And really, Eskel had been caring after him all winter, so maybe it was his turn to return the favor. He starts small knowing Eskel would push him away if he didn't like it. Lambert cards his fingers through those soft brown strands that shine under the sun. When that touch is not enough, he runs his thumbs on those solid cheekbones and then that beautiful round nose. By the time he moves on to the rest of Eskel's face, the tension has bled away and there's a sleepy purr rumbling from the throat beneath his hands.

"Let's get you to bed, yeah? It's been a long day."

Lambert whispers, not wanting to break the trance of tranquility he's put Eskel in. With a small kiss to the temple, Lambert is gently hauling Eskel to his feet and tucking him into the bed with extra furs. Eskel gets cold when he's sad, Lambert knows. When Eskel is all cozy in bed, Lambert carefully smooths that soft hair he adores in secret behind Eskel's ear. Lambert wants nothing more than to snuggle up right behind Eskel, to keep him warm-obviously, but he hesitates. This is new...him being gentle and caring, what if the second Eskel felt up to speaking he'd be told off for babying Eskel?

Eskel's purring stopped. Big hands grabbed at Lambert, trying to pull him close. Lambert stopped fighting himself and just gave in to Eskel's tugging.

"Fine, fine. Big softy...I kinda like you like this. I'll join you under the furs if you let me go long enough to strip."

Eskel let go immediately and Lambert would be lying if he claimed the thought of Eskel being eager to lie down with him for the night didn't cause the huge grin on his face. He started taking blades off his person and putting them on the table next to the bed. He shucked off his leathers and dug through Eskel's clothing chest for a spare pair of soft pants. No way was he about to sleep in leather pants and wake up with itchy legs.

Lambert crawls under the furs behind Eskel and wraps his arms around Eskel. It's not long before they're both purring their way into a deep sleep.

\-------

It's about five hours after dinner that Vesemir returns to the kitchen. He just couldn't sleep, it didn't feel right. He had heard wood splitting earlier and his mind wouldn't rest until he knew what it'd been. He can see from all the way down the hallway that the sound from earlier had been the kitchen door breaking off the hinges. When Vesemir finally enters the kitchen he's a little shocked. Geralt is asleep with his head on his arms, slouched over the table where all the dinner dishes still reside. Just what the hell had his boys done in his absence? 

He is clearing away the dishes, just for tonight because whatever happened was bad enough that his boys forgot the rules- something they haven't done in years. When he goes to get Geralt's dishes he can see the dried tear tracks and smell the wallowing misery in the air around his boy.

_ That bad, huh. _

He gets the dishes situated in the wash basin and fetches a cup of water. The boys, in their human youth, would always be so thirsty after crying spells. Cup of water placed on the table, he takes a seat next to Geralt and rubs his hand over Geralt's back. Something he'd done at one point or another for all his boys over the years, especially in their youth when the rare chance he could let his stoic disposition melt away occurred. He'd never admit it, but he missed being able to look after them. It's why he'd feed them large meals and keep their training sharp. So maybe he couldn't say these things, but he did his best to let it be known through his actions.

"Wake up, boy. If you're to sleep, it would be best to do it in your own bed."

Geralt stirs with a groan that sounds like someone had broken every bone in his body. The table had hurt to sleep over, ruined his bones for the night where the wood jabbed into his ribs, and the crying made his head pound. It was like having a hangover with none of the fun that usually came beforehand.  _ Where the hell-oh _ . 

"V-vesemir? What are you doing."

It was slurred with sleepiness and remnants of misery.

"Getting some water in you and putting your sorry ass to bed."

Vesemir wasn't one to admit feelings in words, but he had his own love language that Geralt had figured out long ago. It was a language based around needs. The cup of water and worry about where Geralt was sleeping was about as intense as it got without a serious injury. Geralt knew Vesemir still saw the three of them as young lads to be looked after. Geralt wanted to be looked after just a little at this moment. After downing the cup of water, Geralt gave his mentor and chosen father a long and tight hug. Normally, that wouldn't slide, but he figures this counts as a good enough reason if Vesemir was worried after him. He drew comfort from the familial smell Vesemir had and the way hands rubbed his back in a soothing gesture.

"Off to bed with you now, son."

"Thank you…"

Geralt went to bed and wouldn't wake up until nearly noon the next day still feeling like shit.

Vesemir stayed up that night and fixed the door to the kitchen to distract himself from thinking about what could have caused such a void between his boys. Until he knew, there was no use trying to find a solution. To treat the symptoms without eliminating the causes wasn't healing anything. A lesson he'd been taught too many times over.

Eskel wouldn't seek Geralt out anymore- leaving encounters to chance and routine- and Lambert would avoid Geralt at all costs. Vesemir wouldn't let Lambert and Geralt spar because Lambert wouldn't stop trying to maim Geralt even after winning the duels and would have to be forcibly removed from the courtyard afterwards. Eskel and Lambert grew impossibly closer, but there was a splinter hidden in their new bond because they couldn't agree on what should become of Geralt. Vesemir felt hopeless to solve any of this even as he learned more, this was something for his boys to solve by their lonesome. They'd each dug themselves a hole and all Vesemir could hope is that they found a way to fill it with something other than their corpses.

Spring was melting the snow and before long it would be time for them all to bid farewell to the keep for another year. 

\------

It's the end of the first week of spring. There's green grass and moss making itself known from under the rapidly thinning ice and snow. There's a fresh smell on the breeze and the first stirrings of life from under the frozen waters. It's early morning right now, and Jaskier is used to early mornings by now, but it doesn't seem to matter how many times he watches the sun rise because it feels just as stunning every time. It was really one of the best sights to behold. Every single time it stole his breath away.

He lives for the way those oranges and pinks give way to soft shades of blue and the way each color hangs onto the clouds like spread paint. There isn't a day he doesn't enjoy the sunrise. Seated out in the university courtyard he's come to love so much, he realizes this sunrise is special. It's special because Eskel should be due to show up any day now! And that makes him so much more excited than it should. He'd only met the man once, but he was such a lovely person. Jaskier really hopes he makes good on his promises and shows up soon, lest the greatest vard of the continent die of anticipation.

_ The adoration I could show that man, if he just gives me the chance to. _

"You're here early, as per usual Pankratz."

It's the spymaster that's been 'teaching' him to fight.

Truly, he was a good man, but Jaskier was growing bored of his company lately. He's been in the same place for too long and the urge to leave was fluttering under his skin.

"Ah yes, what type of poet would I be if I didn't watch the sunrise nearly every morning! I'd be a fool to try to sing of beauty I haven't witnessed myself!"

"You've fallen too in love with the sun to give up your sleep."

_ Somethings are worth losing sleep over. _

"Maybe so…"

_ But it wasn't really the sun he was in love with…no, it was the revitalization the sight gave him. And so what if he saw three pairs of eyes in the golden hues. _

And so what had become weekly sparring began for the day. Jaskier was confident enough to start showing real talent. He'd gleaned all the new tricks already and decided it was time to use them all. Not well enough for suspicion of course, just enough to show he could handle his own against an average opponent. People like to teach a daft beautiful bard more than to be bested by him, or so he'd found. It was a simple way he stayed off the metaphorical center-stage.

The two start by taking stances.

He dips out of the way of a fast punch and kicks the bend of the spymaster's knee. The man stumbles into a roll. Childsplay really.

"Going soft of me, Lucas?"

And sure, Lucus is a handsome man, but Jaskier appreciates his appearance in a more artistic style than one of a potential bedmate. It was just natural for Jaskier to tease. Maybe if he'd been in his youthful state of mind like he'd been so long ago, when he'd been stumbling from bed to bed following unrequited love on the path.

"Not going easy or pulling punches, no. You've gotten much sneakier though. I will admit you're less annoying than when I'd first started our weekly spar too."

_ And it hurts just enough to be called annoying when he'd been having a good morning. Just enough to feel thorny. _

He doubles up his efforts and blocks every attack and returns a few good ones before he just starts feeling violent for violence's sake. Those feelings of darkness weaseling their way back into his consciousness.

"I think for one, we've done enough for today. I've gotten bored of punching those handsome cheekbones."

"Now who's gone soft Pankratz? I didn't even land any shiners on you!"

_ That's the point Lucas. I have a very sexy man to impress this week. And if you push any more I might just push back with too much fervor. _

"Maybe so, but I need to start performing again! I need coin to make my way on the road soon! Can't have the beauty beat out of me if I hope to earn enough!"

"Ah, so be it. If you're preparing to set out again, I've something to tell you. We've had minimal success on pulling secrets out of the nobility further west, by the coast. We'd like you to visit. If you want to take another course, we agreed to your terms- you're welcome to. But that's where we need help. If you're still interested in that potion, a secret from there could be enough to convince the higher-ups."

_ I'll think it over of course. It's a bit frightening right now. Leaving behind humanity probably should be thought over for more than one season. _

"Thank you, for the transparency. I don't like having the proverbial wool pulled over my eyes. I'll consider it over the year. Until we meet again, Lucas."

The two shake hands and part ways. Jaskier has some planning to do. His purse isn't empty by any means, but it's important to fatten it a little before heading out in case he runs into a dry spell. He needs to start performing around the city to get road supplies and keep his name a household name. Since he wants to travel faster, he might consider a horse for once. Plus, he needs to set his reputation of driving a hard bargain into the hearts of men again. Apparently the slimy scoundrel by the name of Valdo Marx has decided he's worthy of playing Jaskier's favorites- and at Jaskier's frequented establishments none-the-less.

He's due for an interesting year, and hopefully it'll be a good one too! He's got to have some faith that things will work out because he wants to move forward. 

_ No more letting opportunities pass me by, I won't stand for it. _


	10. Tears and Fears

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> my poor boys

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My my, it has been awhile! I started this story forever ago, dumber than I am now and much sadder too. I hope to be able to update some more again! Is it perfect- of course not, but it is mine, so I love it anyway. Let's see how this goes. Welcome back lovely audience <3

Lambert wakes up sweating and gasping. Another nightmare had caught up to him in his slumber and reminded him of times long past. This time it was the trials...how everyone from his class except for him had their lives stolen early. He remembers them all less and less each year and the guilt of that eats him up inside his soul. In his dreams they taunt him for forgetting, for living without them. They try to drag him down and pull him underground to the mass grave where their scorched bones lie. In the worst ones...he feels the few he came to love deeply smothering him.

"You awake, short fuse?"

Lambert looks around with wide eyes that are wet around the edges. He just needs to see Eskel, just needs those golden eyes and deep voice to draw him back to his senses, but everything feels sluggish and far away.

"Hey-hey, I'm right here, look into my eyes. You're in bed with me, at the old keep. Breathe…"

Eskel holds Lambert’s face in his hands and does his best to swipe the sweat off of Lambert’s cheeks because he'd worked out how to bring Lambert back after the first time with some input from the youngest wolf. This has happened plenty since Lambert started crawling into bed with him over the winter. It happens to them all, even old Vesemir. And Lambert would continue to deny it, but Eskel really helped the youngest wolf pull through tough mornings.

Once Lambert is back to full consciousness, he finds himself wrapped around Eskel. He's sure that he'd rather feel all the pains in the world than to wake up so exhausted ever again. But life would go on with or without him, and he'd be damned if he chose to just waste away in bed. He gives Eskel a kiss on the cheek.

"When do you think you'll leave for the path? It's just about time now, isn't it?" 

And Eskel sees it for what it is.

A sadness because separation hurts even if they purposely never say goodbye.

"I care very much about you, Lambert. You'll always have me, even if it's not in a very traditional way. I was thinking of leaving in two days, I have someone to meet up with. A man I met months ago."

Lambert hums and his eyes seem duller than before.

"Do you...care about him? I know we never really agreed to anything...it's alright, if you would rather go to him-for good I mean. I wouldn't blame you…"

"It's not like that, short fuse. I'll always have a weakness for you. I think I have for a long while…

Say you don't want me to see another soul like that, and I won't. Say you want only me and I’ll give that to you. I’m not tossing you aside like that."

This is where things would be tricky. It was a matter of if they could both be happy with only each other for only a season and chance meetings. Maybe they could be, if they were simple men who didn't slay beasts for a living, who couldn't use any magic, and who had a home for more than a single season. The real truth is that they are not any of these things, nor are they simple men.

"I couldn't ask that of you, so I won't ask it for myself either. Just...promise you will come back?

Just promise me."

"I promise."

"Good, now let's get breakfast. I'm starving."

And Lambert did what he was best at, he pretended nothing hard or defining had happened in the last year and played the part of the edgy bastard. He put on clothes he'd only ever wear here, where he was tucked away. It was definitely the only set of clothing he owned that wasn't stiff leather. The woolen sweater and cotton pants are breezy and loose, the belt around his waist the only thing from stopping the strong mountain winds from claiming the clothes. 

"You look nice and soft when you're not dressed up in all leather, Lambert. Though, I wouldn't dare complain about how well you and tight leather mix."

"Like a drowned kitten maybe. I know you get soft around the stomach in the winter- didn’t know your heart was too.”

“Wouldn’t you know it, I’ve been soft on you these last few years. Should I go back to the days when I would pull pranks on you week after week?”

Lambert let out a fond huff and prepared to launch every clothing item he could think of at Eskel.

Eskel let his balled up pants hit him in the face. The two would make their way to the kitchen shortly, good humor tightly hidden away.

\-------

Geralt had decided, he was going to leave in the night. Today would be his last day home before he headed to Cintra to claim his destined child, only minor stops along the way. He had packed everything he owned back up into his traveling bags, but he wasn't really sure what he was to do with the stuff around his room for a few moments. It hurt, to think he should pack up the entire room and hide every possible trace of his existence from the keep…

He couldn’t take anything more with him. It was heavy and copious and he had no place to deposit them.

So he'd settled for putting the items he cared about most into a locked trunk he'd kept from the keep's days of glory. It was a dark wooden chest with carved details and stained black as ink. The smell still held onto the notes of ash and rust from the siege. He put every note, every trinket, every doll, anything that had made him feel something into the box. And then he locked it. 

_ Where it would be safe _ .

Yes, he knows the lock does not have the strength or protections it takes to keep a witcher out, but it was the principle of it. These were things he didn't want to share with his brothers anymore, not until he had fixed all he could. Until then, his box that held more of himself than he'd like to admit, would be safe within the walls of the keep and in the shadows under his bed. Where no one would see.

He watched the sun rise over the horizon from his favorite spot on the walls. The heels of his shoes making gentle contact with the stone from where they hung over the edge. It's amazing how every time he views the sunrise he feels settled, for only just that moment. It feels unreasonable to be so calm when sitting on a ledge with a drop so large that fog covers the bottom, deep in the mountains where plenty of monsters lurk alongside many beasts. 

Geralt can feel it somewhat, like an intuition, that he will not be this calm again for a long while. The silence of the morning resonates somewhere in his bones and he feels sick all over again. A moment of peace without being unconscious or meditating. A true rarity given his line of work and poor decision making. 

_ Better to enjoy it while it lasts. _

If he was really going to go through with his plan of running away to face the world on his own in the middle of the night, he should get started on a big breakfast. The mountains do not care if your bones don't have the energy to fight a dozen monsters in the cold snow or the hundreds of shadows that grip your mind. 

\-------

Geralt makes his way into the kitchen to find that Vesemir has already finished making a sturdy breakfast. An attempt to fatten everyone up before another busy and grueling year of too little food and hard work. He feels stupid, because he's the last one to get here and his usual seat on the corner right between Eskel and Lambert feels like there might as well be a thousand tiny needles on the seat. 

Geralt sits down anyway because he's planning on this being his last day here for...well, a long time.

Maybe they aren’t happy to see him, but just in case...he needs to see their faces just one more time before another grueling year. Assuming tying up all these loose ends takes a year or less. Assuming he could even make it back, wanted or unwanted. 

Vesemir pretends he doesn't see the way Geralt has that same look every runaway boy looking to escape the keep had the night before the forest ate them. He pretends he doesn't see the way Lambert won't even look at Geralt, or the way Eskel is ready to disappear to his 'hidden' spot in the library. No, to acknowledge these things right now would be seen as picking sides and starting a fight before anyone even had time to eat the food. So, he starts doling out plates of food and hopes his idiot pups can keep it together just long enough for food. Just long enough for one meal before everything falls apart for another year.

Alas, hoping has paid off for once. Vesemir sends Eskel to ‘start sorting the library before the season ends’, and he sends Lambert to clear the roofing of snow to protect the structural integrity of the keep. The two, desperate to leave behind the tension bolt off to their tasks the moment they are assigned. 

“What do you want me to do?”

“Why are you running away, boy? I know that look. You would be dumb to assume I wouldn’t recognize it.”

“How much do you know?”

“Nothing much. I know it must be very serious to have you running and to have busted my kitchen door.”

“Mmm.”

“Words, pup.”

And this is the worst, Geralt thinks, to admit that his life had become so messy to his father figure.

“I made some...choices. I have a child surprise to collect, a djinn wish to undo, and a friend to make amends with. And only if I can manage the first two will Eskel try to forgive me. No saying with Lambert…”

Geralt holds his breath and avoids eye contact. He waits for it, for Vesemir to renounce him or to ask why Geralt would do such things...but it doesn’t come. Instead, Vesemir takes a seat next to Geralt and pulls Geralt to him in a form of hug.

“I see why you would run and why the others would be so upset. I cannot say that I know what to do about any of this, but should you need my help I would gladly give it within reason. There are many mistakes to be made in a lifetime, but you cannot avoid them and so it would be stupid to withhold my understanding.

Do you understand me, boy? You needn’t ask for my forgiveness because you already have it.”

“Mm...thank you. Thank you, Vesemir.”

“Yes, now go ready Roach to ride while I fetch you my extra potions. I won’t have you running off in the night and dying in the woods before you can even leave the mountains.You will do what you need to, because it is what you need. You will always have a home here pup.”

It can be incredibly easy to forget that the entire world isn’t out to get you when most of the world is actually out to get you, but there are some moments where that little reminder that there exists good people too can be enough to make a grown man cry. Or a grown witcher, who clearly doesn’t have watery eyes-no-he’s just smiling on his way to the stables. He had worried that if Vesemir saw that look, as he had, that it would be the thing to foil his resolve. He could try to reconcile with his fellow wolves...but, Vesemir was different. 

_ He is a father, if I could have one. _

\------------------------------------------------

In the library, tucked in a shelf formation that only made sense if you knew it was hiding Eskel’s favorite place, Eskel took his moment to breathe. He knew it was coming, the moment Geralt did something else stupid, but with everything that had happened he was out of the loop. He only hoped it wouldn’t kill Geralt. Maybe they would never get to fix things, maybe he would never get to love Geralt the way he wanted, but he would be damned if it was because his wolf had died. For a second it felt that the heartbreak would be worth it if he could save Geralt...but really, it hadn’t worked after nearly a century. It wasn’t going to change anything. Life didn’t work that way.   
  
_ Gods, I want to destroy stuff right now. _   
  


The anger, the betrayal, it was all festering under his skin, slithering and writhing. Meditation had only put it off for so long, but it was building up to a dangerous point. It felt like it was climbing up his throat and burning his skin, more acidic than any potion. 

Eskel was always very even tempered- until he wasn’t. Some things just pushed him too far and it was like leaving the wound open and waiting for the puss to burst outwards after a week. The last push...the last push is when he walks out to the stable to situate Scorpion, he is leaving in two days after all. Roach isn’t there, Geralt didn’t say goodbye- the bastard had slipped away earlier than every winter before, just slightly before the passages are ready to be traveled too. Eskel makes it to the courtyard just next to the stables before it slips out of his control. Like the sands of a broken hourglass it shatters, his sense of control lowered for just long enough to fall to his knees and punch the dirt beneath him. He doesn’t even realize the magnitude of what he’d done for some time. He opens his eyes to a radius of melted snow and scorched earth that had cracked beneath his hands. It goes several paces out, like the bursting of one of Lambert’s more potent bombs. It’s...terrifying. His hands don’t feel like his own- he feels himself a passenger in his body. 

_ No, no. I don’t do this, not me…not for so long! _

Lambert is staring from the roof. He’d heard the yell and then the blinding light. He thought for sure something really big had burst into the courtyard and he would have to fight it with his bare hands until Eskel or someone came to the rescue. He arrives to find it’s Eskel himself staring at his hands and drowning in his own head.

_ Oh, gods...there goes the most resolved of the sons. What a mess. _

Lambert is sure Vesemir is probably already on his way, but he’d feel terrible to let Eskel stay there by himself as the old man pulls out the dimeritium cuffs from the days of old. His feet have him sitting in front of Eskel in under a minute. He knows Eskel isn’t in his right mind for this second, so he does what he knows. He combs his fingers through Eskel’s hair, kisses him on the forehead, and simply sits in front of him until Vesemir locks the unchained cuffs on his wrists. He shares that look with Vesemir, makes that silent promise to take care of Eskel and cause no problems until next winter, before taking Eskel back to his bed for the day. 

It’s a lesser known fact that everyone has a threshold before they panic. Some people never find the limit naturally, it takes conditioning. Eskel, as resolved as he had always been, did in fact have a threshold. Sorrow and age had leveled him as it had everyone. There was a time where even he would fly off the handle and would be punished for more than delinquencies. It came the most often when he was angry and then it would explode outwards on a hair trigger, normally in the form of his signs, sometimes even true untrained magic. As lovely as he is, these times were dangerous, and he needed some time where he could breathe- without magic. 

It’s going to be a rough year on the path for certain.


End file.
